


apocalyptic friend

by helloshepard



Series: helloshepard's CYBERVERSE fix-it fics [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Cyberverse
Genre: (Mild) Cards Against Humanity Shenanigans, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Awkwardness, Bad Flirting, Body Hijacking, Canon-Typical Violence, Crushes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, First Kiss, Fix-It, Gentle Face Touches, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Nonsexual Interfacing (Data Exchange), Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 3 Spoilers, Slow Burn, Virtual Reality, hand holding, handwavey science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22918414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloshepard/pseuds/helloshepard
Summary: Dead End, Perceptor, and their particular brand of slow burn: awkward, emotionally repressed, with infrequent instances of hand holding throughout.
Relationships: Background Hot Rod (Transformers)/Soundwave (Transformers), Dead End (Transformers) & Astrotrain (Transformers), Dead End/Perceptor
Series: helloshepard's CYBERVERSE fix-it fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703764
Comments: 200
Kudos: 209





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so...deadceptor, anyone?
> 
> this is intended to be a slow burn. we'll see how that goes!
> 
> currently canon-compliant, but will veer off in a chapter or two. the title of this fic is taken from ["apocalyptic friend" by Eef Barzelay](). it's also the title of my as-of-yet-unpublished deadceptor playlist.

A hand touched his shoulder.

“Wake up.”

Dead End grunted.

If memory served, he woken up from a simulated nightmare, followed Clobber and an Autobot back to Maccadam's, and just a moment ago, he had been sitting in one of the booths, nursing a mug of watered-down engex, and now…

Now someone was poking him.

“Go away.”

“No. Your energon levels are critically low. Get up.”

Dead End sighed, but acquiesced, sitting up to see the Autobot scientist sitting in his booth, directly across from him. The lighting was dim as always—Clobber was busily assembling a CUBE, and Hot Rod was perched on a barstool, scribbling something onto the bar counter. Maccadam was nowhere to be seen.

“Huh. Guess the last twelve hours _weren’t_ a bad defrag.”

“Indeed,” Perceptor agreed, pushing a drink over to Dead End, who eyed it with no small amount of suspicion. He didn’t think the Autobots were in the habit of poisoning a mech’s drink, but… “Drink. You need to replenish your energon reserves. And stay still. I need to finish my examination.”

“You want me to drink or stay still?”

“Hm. Finish the drink first. I will wait for you.”

Obediently, Dead End took a long drink. The energon was cool against his throat—and he was thirsty, Dead End realized. Maybe the Autobot hadn’t been lying, but if he was so low on energon, it really would make more sense to hook him up to a proper, medical-grade intraline and refuel him that way.

But they were in a bar, not a medbay—if the Autobot didn’t have the resources to patch up his own optics, he certainly wasn’t going to find any supplies to refuel Dead End.

“Are you even qualified to be giving me an exam?” Dead End gestured to the Autobot’s blown out optics, then realized Perceptor couldn’t see his hand. “You know, maybe someone should be fixing _you.”_

“I see all that I need to.”

Without further preamble, the Autobot’s scope flicked online. It beeped (distressingly, Dead End thought) as it scanned his frame. Huh. Curious, Dead End waved his hand in front of Preceptor’s face.

“Stop that.”

“Sorry,” Dead End said automatically.

“Rather worrying,” Perceptor was saying. “Your energon levels are 25% lower than Clobber’s. Finding a solution to the neurological loop has taken priority.”

Dead End wondered if that was Perceptor’s way of telling him to hit the road, to finish his drink and get out of the bar.

“Good luck with that.”

“Appreciated, but not needed,” Perceptor said. “Because you are going to help me.”

* * *

“Stay here.” Perceptor said, when Dead End was finished with his drink. “I will get you another.”

Dead End watched as Perceptor got up and walked to the bar. He exchanged a few words with Hot Rod (discussing how best to offload him, if Dead End had to guess) and vaulted over the counter with an effortless fluidity any racer worth his engex would strive for.

Perceptor returned with a pitcher of energon and refilled Dead End’s mug.

Until now, Dead End hadn’t wondered where Maccadam’s seemingly endless energon reserves came from. It had been a question mused during the various sieges around Iacon, but Dead End had never considered the question worth his processing power.

But now, he wondered. The more pressing issue, he supposed, was how the bar remained hidden from the tentacled freaks that were clouding the skies.

“If I’d known you Autobots were serving energon on demand I would’ve defected eons ago.”

“Did you?” Perceptor asked. “Defect, I mean.”

“No. Probably not.” Dead End tapped the rim of the mug and took another sip. “Not that it matters—I’m living on borrowed time. And so are you.”

Dead End gestured to Hot Rod and Clobber. “And so are they.”

“Not if I can help it.” Perceptor jabbed at Dead End’s chest with a finger. “Not if _we_ can help it.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to this.”

“Are you refusing?”

Dead End hesitated. Usually, mechs gave in and left him alone with far less effort on his part, but Perceptor seemed immune—either knowingly or otherwise—to Dead End’s tactics.

“Well, no. I never said that.”

“Good.” Perceptor pushed the pitcher at Dead End. “Finish that, then come find me.”

Wordlessly, Dead End accepted the pitcher and poured himself another drink. He was beginning to feel uncomfortably full, but a quick check at the readout on his wrist indicated his fuel levels were still low. Not that it mattered, Dead End supposed—once the freaks outside figured out where they were, they’d all be deactivated. Or worse, sent back to the parade.

Dead End drank the next one slower than the first two. Perceptor had moved to a booth on the opposite corner of the bar, and Hot Rod had joined him. Which left the bar itself open. Slowly, Dead End got to his feet and collected his drinks, then shuffled over to the counter. He could feel Clobber watching him expectantly, before sighing and turning back to her CUBE.

Dead End wondered what another Decepticon— _any_ other Decepticon—would be doing in his place. Killed the Autobots, definitely, but after _that?_

He had already failed step one; there was little sense in following that train of thought, Dead End supposed. Maybe…maybe it would make sense for him to keep Perceptor as a hostage, or something. The guy was definitely the brains of the operation. Dead End wasn’t stupid enough to think he would be a suitable replacement for Hot Rod—he could barely figure out what he was supposed to do; finding the spare drive space to think for himself and Clobber would probably send him into stasis lock.

So. He would sit at the bar and drink. Which was what Perceptor had wanted him to do anyway. Dead End wondered if he should be irritated—or if, at the very least, he should be protesting following an Autobot’s orders.

Dead End took another sip of Energon. Hot Rod was getting agitated, gesturing to himself, then to the door. The mech was probably trying to convince himself he needed to face certain deactivation for the greater good.

He had never understood the Autobot faction’s penchant for self-sacrifice—sure, it was necessary, as most ugly things were, but did it have to be so _lauded?_ He wouldn’t be surprised if Autobots got into fights over who would deactivate themselves For The Cause. He had thought all Autobots were like that, but…Perceptor seemed to be less concerned with self-sacrifice than with making sure Dead End got on board with the program.

Hot Rod got up and walked out of the bar.

Five minutes later, when Dead End had heard neither blaster fire nor screaming, he gave in and looked at Perceptor. The Autobot didn’t seem particularly bothered that their fearless leader had run off with no backup—he seemed more concerned with calibrating his scope.

Dead End looked down at the mug of energon in his hand and sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is always appreciated! pls come and talk with me about deadceptor [on my tumblr.]()
> 
> the next chapter will have: hand holding!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuity wise, this takes place a little while after "The Sleeper" (Whirl is on the team but Soundwave isn't, and they haven't found a way into the Titan yet). 
> 
> The next chapter will take place after "The Citizen".
> 
> NOTE: there is a very, very minor warning for emetophobia in this chapter. If you'd like to avoid it, skip the sentence that begins with "Dead End transformed back into his root mode"

“Here.”

Dead End scrutinized the…thing. It looked like some kind of cheap battle visor—and a little too much like Quint tech to make Dead End feel totally comfortable putting it anywhere near his face.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Nothing, for now.” When he didn’t take the hardware, Perceptor set it aside and turned back to his datapads. “It’s what you’ll be wearing—over the Quintesson interface module, of course.”

“I still don’t know why _I’m_ the one going back in the loop.” His protest rang hollow, even to himself. Hot Rod was their de facto leader, Clobber was the muscle, Whirl was the air support, Perceptor was the brains. He was the odd one out—whatever he could do, someone in their little ragtag group could do better. Dead End wondered if he had it in himself to feel bitter. He didn’t think so.

“There is no need to worry,” Perceptor said. “I will be with you for the duration of the experiment. And if you do lose connection with the real world—which you won’t—I will enter the loop myself to bring you back.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dead End valiantly ignored the way his spark was spinning and gave in, picking up the mask and turning it over in his hands. As it was, it was far too oversized to fit over his optics comfortably, but if it were placed on the Quint tech, rather directly on his face…

“You know, you could say ‘no’.”

“Huh?”

Perceptor switched his scope off and turned to face Dead End directly. Not that it mattered, the callous part of Dead End said—the guy couldn’t even see him, and even if he did, it wasn’t like he actually cared. No one cared—maybe once upon a time, before the energon crisis, before the war, people cared. But not now. Especially not now. Dead End certainly didn’t.

“Dead End.” The way the Autobot said his name set Dead End’s teeth on edge. “No one is forcing you to do this. You are allowed to refuse, and we will figure out an alternative.”

Dead End swallowed. “We’re a little short on volunteers, aren’t we?”

“Yes.” Perceptor took the device back and flipped open one of the panels with practiced hands. His scope clicked on and began scanning the mask, beeping quietly. “If you are uncomfortable—”

“I’m not _uncomfortable,”_ Dead End snapped, which was a lie. “I just don’t know if I trust some Autobot scientist not to ditch me at the first opportunity.”

“Hmm.” Perceptor snapped the panel closed. “In that case—I will take great pleasure in proving you wrong.”

* * *

The drive to the Quint facility was quiet. Perceptor had readily agreed to bring Clobber along as backup, which made Dead End feel better, if only incrementally. At the very least, Clobber wouldn’t let Dead End be left in the Loop without a fight. Probably.

Clobber tagging along also meant Perceptor would hitch a ride on _her,_ not on him. Dead End could count the number of times a mech had ridden on his alt on one hand. Some mechs liked the sensation of a mech clinging to the roof of one’s altmode, but Dead End was not one of them. He was barely big enough to transport a regular sized mech, much less be a transport alt, and he had found each experience more claustrophobic than anything else. But Clobber didn’t seem too mind, and was happy enough to chatter for the duration of the drive. She had found a box of old, analog games behind Mac’s counter, and while Hot Rod had agreed to play a round when they returned, the instructions said it would be better with three or more mechs.

The Quint warehouse was just as dreary as he remembered. Dead End surveyed the rows upon rows of mechs hanging motionless, the thick cables of Quint tech connecting each of them to some nefarious whole. The structure was massive enough that even with enhanced optical sensors, Dead End couldn’t see the ceiling. There were just the cables, looped sloppily in the space between the floor and the unseeable ceiling.

Idly, Dead End wondered if destroying the nexus of their connection would automatically release the others.

It would probably kill them all, Dead End mused, whittling the population of the Cybertronian race down to five. And then they’d be really screwed.

“What’s this for, anyway?”

Dead End hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask. He suspected, of course, but Perceptor hadn’t told him. And he hadn’t asked.

“Theoretically, this device will allow us to communicate with the Cybertronians stuck in the Loop,” Perceptor said. “Eliminating the need for the cortical psychic patch entirely.”

“Good.” Clobber nodded sagely. “I hate that thing.”

Dead End held no strong feelings about the thing either way, but then again, he’d managed to (mostly) avoid Shockwave’s attentions throughout the war.

“I think I woke up here.” He led them to a hole in the rows of mechs, where a deactivated module lay on the ground. “Hey. You sure you can actually put me back in the parade?”

“Relatively.” Perceptor hesitated. “After we are finished here, it may be wise to collect any unused modules. We will likely need them in the future.”

“I can do that,” Clobber volunteered. “Plus I can keep a lookout for more of those squiggly thingies.”

“Prosecutors,” Dead End said automatically, but for all he knew, their official total was Quint-Squiggly-Thingie. He sighed and stepped into place, right between two mechs whose names he had never bothered to learn.

“Here.” Perceptor secured the mask over his face. Dead End sucked in a quick breath, but nothing happened—his breath fogged up what little visual input the eyepieces provided, but he could still hear Clobber pacing the aisles, and he could still hear Perceptor's scope humming as the Autobot fiddled with the mask. “Initializing now. It may take a moment.”

“Couldn’t you have done this a little earlie—”

  
  
  


Cybertron was clean and bright. Sterile.

He had imagined the cleanup would’ve taken a little more time, but if Megatron wanted to waste their resources on a stupid parade, Dead End wasn’t going to complain. It was mind-numbingly boring, and the music was grating, and the whole debacle was far too bright and colorful, but he supposed it was better than being in the middle of a firefight.

Idly, Dead End watched the procession of beryllium—he cared about beryllium and elements about as much as he cared about cortical psychic patches, which was…not much at all.

Weird. He hadn’t thought about cortical psychic patches in…probably a few millennia. Dead End shrugged.

To his right, Lockdown was picking a fight with some MTO. Dead End laughed on cue, along with a group of others, but it sounded empty, even to him. The trumpets blared again, and Dead End blinked, looking up, and—

“Woah.”

An Autobot was staring at him. Speaking to him, Dead End thought, but his words were strange—understandable, but entirely nonsensical.

“Uh,” Dead End said intelligently. “What?”

“Transform!”

“This is a _parade,”_ Dead End said. “Not a race.”

“Dead End.” The Autobot knew his name, which was weird, but not as weird as one optic seeing a parade and the other seeing a grungy Autobot patting his face. “Transform.”

“But the parade.” Not that he cared one way or another about the parade, but Megatron was coming, and—

The Autobot groaned and disappeared. Dead End tried to quell his disappointment and turned just in time to see Sky-Byte being crushed by a massive cube of chromium.

And then the Autobot was right in front of him. Dead End yelped, taking a quick step back and walking right into Lockdown.

“I did not lie,” the Autobot was saying. “I will not leave you in the Loop, Dead End.”

“The Loop?”

“Yes.” The Autobot grabbed his hand, which— _woah,_ boundaries—Dead End didn’t protest, because now the Autobot was running, pulling him past the throngs of Decepticons and towards the street.

“Hey!” Dead End stopped, holding up his occupied hand. The Autobot’s hand felt warm. Tangible. “What gives?”

Unceremoniously, the Autobot let go, only to shove him right into the path of the falling cube of chromium. Instinctively, Dead End threw up his hands, and—

* * *

Dead End transformed back into his root mode, took one look at Clobber, at the Quint tech that had been so recently affixed to his face, at Perceptor, then bent over and purged his tanks.

_“Come on,_ Dead End,” Clobber was saying. “You’re okay, right?”

“Give him a moment,” Perceptor said, and the gentleness of his tone made Dead End want to punch the Autobot in the face. Or maybe he wanted to punch himself in the face. He wasn’t sure.

“It didn’t work,” Dead End said. “I saw you, but…”

“I know.” He heard Perceptor kneel beside him. This time, Perceptor’s hand was gentle, coming to rest on his shoulder. There was plenty of leeway, more than enough space for Dead End to brush it off if he wanted. “I apologize. I should have put the device through more rigorous testing before subjecting you to it.”

“You think?” Dead End was far too tired to inject much malice in his tone. He wondered if the Quints would notice if he just curled up on the ground and took a quick nap. Probably. “Can we go now?”

“Of course.”

Dead End would never in a million years thank Perceptor for helping him up, but he accepted the assistance all the same.

The drive back to Maccadam’s was uneventful, and far quieter then the drive out. Dead End’s processor felt cloudy—if this was what happened when a mech was sent back to the Loop a second time, what would happen if they got captured again? If he got captured again?

Hot Rod was sitting at the bar when they returned. While they were gone, the Autobot had been tasked with trying to find a way into the Titan itself, and clearly, he had failed. Or maybe he had succeeded, but was nice enough to come back up to greet them personally. Yeah, right. Dead End shook his head.

“Come here.”

This time, when he realized what Perceptor was doing, Dead End shook off the hand on his shoulder. He didn’t remember transforming, nor did he recall walking to the back room. If Mac had a whole Titan to himself, it didn’t make sense that he would have to sleep in the bar’s storage room, but there was a recharge slab installed in the far corner. Perceptor pushed off a stack of boxes and patted the slab.

“Lie down.”

“I don’t need to listen to you,” Dead End mumbled, but crawled onto the recharge slab. It was a good idea, and if Perceptor _hadn’t_ been there, Dead End would’ve laid down anyway.

“I am going to scan you again,” Perceptor said. “If we can find a way into the Titan, there should be the supplies required to properly refuel you.”

Dead End hadn’t noticed his optics had gone offline. Begrudgingly, he powered them back on and realized he must have dozed off.

Perceptor was still at his side. Still scanning.

“Your fuel levels have dropped,” Perceptor said. “But your spark output remains stable. That is a good sign.”

Dead End snorted. “Can’t get rid of me that easy, I guess.”

“Indeed.” Dead End switched his optics off and listened to Perceptor’s scope. It was very nearly peaceful, having no input save for his audio receptors. And his voice, Dead End supposed. “Dead End. Do you have access to your medical records?”

“No. Why?”

“Hm. Your optics differ from the standard factory models,” Perceptor said. “The enhanced visual input may have been what allowed you to notice Clobber’s presence in the Loop, and thus, facilitate your first escape.”

Dead End heard the scope shut off. Perceptor was quiet. Perhaps he thought Dead End was asleep. Or perhaps he was waiting for Dead End to engage him in conversation.

Dead End sighed and took the bait.

“Then why didn’t it work the second time?”

“I am unsure,” Perceptor said. “It may be a feature of the Loop, designed to prevent successive escapes. Regardless: you will not be entering the Loop again.”

“Sure.” Dead End switched his optics back on—not that there was much of a point in the action: it wasn’t like Perceptor was looking at him. “Whatever.”

“My scan is completed,” Perceptor said. “You should rest. I will retrieve energon for you.”

Dead End watched as Perceptor stood, hesitated, then moved to place a hand on his.

This time, Dead End didn’t pull away. With his free hand, he fumbled for the recharge cable. Compared to Perceptor’s hand, it felt cold and lifeless.

“Rest, Dead End.”

Dead End gave in and nodded, then switched his optics off once again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I intended this chapter was actually supposed to have more hand holding, but that kiiinda got pushed back a bit. 
> 
> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated--come talk about deadceptor with me on [tumblr!](http://soundwavereporting.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you'd like, check out the deadceptor playlist (aka, what i listen to when i write this, if i'm not listening to a podcast) [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/46IGlN8YJahSCnYUaxgBXG?si=68qwCX3IRXGciOIQfQfuhw)

Dead End woke up with a massive headache and the urge to pick a fight. He switched on his optics and sat up to unplug himself from the recharge slab. Someone—Perceptor, probably—had left a cube of energon on the makeshift table beside the slab. He popped the cube’s seal and took a long drink, then stood and stretched. Mac’s back room was far emptier than a well-stocked bar should be, he thought. 

Maybe Perceptor _was_ right. Maybe this actually was a Titan.

Dead End resisted the urge to scoff at his own foolishness.

He could hear the rest of the group, out in the main section of the bar. Possibly arguing about the Titan, probably arguing about how best to implement Hot Rod’s latest fantastic scheme.

Dead End sighed and walked out to join them.

* * *

Dead End finished the training sim in a good mood, and with a new appreciation for his ragtag teammates.

“Are you carrying your own arm?” Dead End asked, because what _else_ do you say to a guy who’d apparently just been (figuratively) watching you for the last 503 training levels.

“Obviously.”

Dead End tried to ignore the blinking alarms in his HUD and followed Perceptor into the elevator.

“Hold that.” Obediently, Dead End took hold of Perceptor’s arm. The Autobot fumbled in a subspace pocket for a moment before producing a intraline packet and a cube of medgrade. He was well aware Clobber and Whirl were gawking—Hot Rod at least had the decency not to stare.

“For you too, Whirl.” Preceptor held out a second intraline. “Your levels were lower than Dead End’s.”

“Thanks!” Whirl accepted the packet and cube. “Uh, how do I use this?”

“Here.” Dead End looked away as Perceptor slipped the intraline and cube into Whirl’s medical port, looking instead at Perceptor’s unattached arm. It looked as though it had been torn off—not cut, or even shot. Dead End had lost a limb or two during the war, and he had spent enough time helping out in Flatline’s medbay to know this one would be a real pain to reattach. Hopefully Hot Rod was up for the job.

“Dead End.”

“Huh?”

Perceptor had moved back to stand beside him. Dead End wondered about that—why was Perceptor standing beside _him_ of all mechs? Surely Hot Rod would be better company for however long this elevator ride was going to be.

“I am capable of attaching the intraline device,” Perceptor said. “If you will allow me access to your medical port.”

“Uh.” Dead End glanced at the rest of the group, then back at Perceptor. “Sure. I guess.”

Perceptor’s lips twitched, and Dead End wondered if the mech ever smiled. He triggered the autorelease on the medical port on his right side, willing himself not to flinch as Perceptor slotted the cube into place. His firewalls accepted the (outdated) software patch readily enough, and before the elevator doors opened, a steady stream of energon was trickling into his lines.

* * *

Their mission to retrieve the cloaking module was more or less a failure, but Dead End was beginning to think that if it didn’t end in someone’s deactivation, maybe it could be considered a success.

Maccadam seemed determined to lighten the mood, immediately pouring a round of drinks the moment everyone stepped out of the elevator.

“Oh!” Clobber said, when she had finished her first drink. “Games!”

Hot Rod had been staring blankly into his drink, but at Clobber’s voice, he perked up.

“What’d you find?”

She pushed the box over to Hot Rod, who examined its contents with a hopeful eye. Not for the first time, Dead End wondered at how old the mech was—was his childlike personality a facade, or if was he _actually_ that young?

“Chips Against Cybertron?” Hot Rod said. “I loved that game!”

“Let’s play, then,” Whirl said, clicking his claws. “Does it have the Camien expansion pack?”

“I’ll be down in the Titan,” Perceptor said. “Reattaching my arm.”

_And trying to wake him up,_ went unsaid. Or would have been said, Dead End supposed, had Mac not been blatantly eavesdropping. He watched as Perceptor stepped into the back room, then turned to see that the rest of the group had been doing the same.

Hot Rod sighed. “I’m going to go help him.”

“Don’t bother,” Dead End said, before he realized he had opened his mouth. “I’ll go.”

“You sure, Dead End?” Clobber asked.

“Yeah.” Dead End bit his lip, wondering if he should toss in a snide remark about the game itself. “Someone should check on him before he falls down another elevator shaft.”

“Good point.”

Dead End avoided Hot Rod’s questioning gaze. He didn’t think the Autobot believed he was up to something—besides their first meeting, Dead End hadn’t exactly acted as hostile as he should have. He stepped into the elevator and keyed in the code for the 203rd floor: medical wing A.

As he leaned against the elevator wall, looking out at the honeycomb doors, Dead End realized that this was the first time he was alone since he had awoken and found the others.

Usually— _before_ —he had enjoyed the silence. Silence made many Decepticons uneasy—you only had to look at Soundwave, who seemed unable to comfortably sit in silence for more than a moment or two at a time. But now, it felt downright oppressive, as though something was watching him. When the war first began, Dead End had been part of a squad—time had purged their designations from his memory banks, but he _did_ remember one of them had been borderline neurotic about mechs watching him.

Belatedly, Dead End realized he couldn’t even remember how that first, disastrous squad had met their end.

The elevator doors slid open, and Dead End stepped into the medical wing. It was just as large as Perceptor had implied, stretching from the elevator to as far back as Dead End could see. Thankfully, Perceptor hadn’t gone far—he was perched on one of the supply tables, stripping the damaged circuits as though he was working on a casual hobby rather than his own arm. A box of supplies was scattered supplies across the desk, and Dead End didn’t fail to notice more than a few chairs had been knocked over. Heh. Maybe Perceptor had gotten mad.

“Here for more energon?”

“What? No.” Dead End swallowed, then took the plunge and sat right beside Perceptor and grabbed the toolkit. “I’m putting your arm back on.”

“I am capable of reattaching my own arm.”

“Right.” Dead End grabbed Perceptor’s detached arm and grabbed a utility blade from the kit, then got to work cutting away the dead and charred sheathing. “Well, it’s better than playing games up there with Larry, Moe, and Curly.”

“Who?”

“Palaven term.” Dead End frowned and set the detached arm aside. Blind he might be, but Perceptor had done an adequate job cleaning it up. “Or maybe Earth.”

“Ah.” Privately, Dead End was gratified that Perceptor had stopped trying to fix his arm, turning instead to allow Dead End full access to the cracked circuitry in his shoulder. “I would assume it is a term directed at their relative immaturity.”

“Well, you’d assume correct.” Dead End reached over to grab the soldering iron. “Hold your arm still.”

“Why do you do that?” Perceptor asked.

“Do what?”

“Why do you mask your fear with acerbic behavior?” Perceptor said. “You are afraid. Considering our situation, is an entirely natural reaction.”

“I’m not afraid,” Dead End snapped, tearing his optics away from Perceptor’s face to focus on his shoulder. The tool was already blinking red—if this really _was_ Iaconus, the quality of his medical supplies certainly left something to be desired. “You know, I could just leave you here to sort out your own repairs.”

“You could.”

Dead End finished the batch of circuitry and set the overheated tool down. He considered reaching over Perceptor again, to dig in the kit to see if it there was an extra, but decided against it. He picked up the soldering iron again and went back to work.

“How much can you see, anyway?” Dead End asked, when the silence became too much.

“My targeting array is functional,” Perceptor said. “The scope can detect moving objects and structural instabilities, but my surroundings are difficult to navigate.”

“Hm.” That explained the chairs. “Can’t you fix them?”

Perceptor’s lips twitched. “Until today, we were rather short on medical supplies. And currently, we are incredibly short on qualified medical staff.”

“Don’t you at least want to cover them up?”

“Why?” Perceptor seemed to lean closer, though that may have been entirely Dead End’s imagination. “Does it bother you?”

Dead End snorted. “Hey, if you want to go for the grungy, apocalyptic look, that’s on you.”

He finished the next batch of circuits and set the tool aside too cool down. He tried to think back to his time at Flatline’s clinic—after the circuits themselves were repaired, he would need to jumpstart Perceptor’s own autorepair. Which meant finding nanites.

“Stay here,” Dead End said. He slid off the desk and began rummaging around in one of the shelves, pushing past packets of extra circuitry and mesh bandages. He grabbed a jar of sealant and set it aside.

“How are you feeling?” Perceptor asked.

Dead End blinked. “You’re missing an arm and two optics. And you’re asking me how I feel?”

“Well, yes.” Perceptor said. “I was well aware my actions had a significant chance of blowing out my optics. And I sacrificed my arm so that my head would remain intact. _Your_ condition is a result of Quintesson interference and my own failings. So, yes. I am asking how you feel.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I’m functional.” There. Dead End swallowed and picked up the sealant and nanites. He walked back to the desk and set the supplies down, then grabbed the soldering iron. “Give me a minute to finish up and then I’ll leave you alone.”

Perceptor was silent as Dead End soldered the last bunch of circuits in place. Again, Dead End had to tear his optics away from Perceptor’s face as the mech watched Dead End work with unseeing optics.

He had just finished applying the nanites when Perceptor spoke.

“I am afraid, also.”

Dead End willed himself to keep working, to not freeze up and go back to staring at Perceptor. He opened the jar of sealant with slightly more force than necessary and poured its contents over the nanites. It set quickly, forming a translucent, temporary shell around the newly repaired circuit bundles. In a few cycles it would crack and fall off on its own, and hopefully— _hopefully_ —Perceptor’s autorepair would have regenerated the necessary circuit sheathing.

“I’m done,” Dead End said. “Reactivate your nerve sensors.”

Perceptor grit his teeth, and Dead End felt the smallest inkling of pride when the Autobot’s fingers twitched.

“Feel okay?” Dead End asked.

“Yes.” Perceptor lifted his arm, holding his hand up experimentally. “Good as new—relatively speaking, of course.”

Dead End watched as Perceptor stretched his fingers out, then moved his hand back into his lap. 

“Well. I’ll leave you to your Titan hunting, then.” Dead End tossed the used packaging into the disposal. “You know where to find me.”

“I do.” Dead End had moved to leave, but a hand—Perceptor’s newly repaired hand, he noted—shot out and grabbed his wrist. His hand felt as warm as it had in the Loop. Maybe the mech was overheated.

“It may be presumptuous of me,” Perceptor said. “But I may require some assistance uncovering the layout of this facility. That is, if you don’t mind missing out on the game upstairs.”

Dead End looked down at his wrist. He looked up at Perceptor. He looked back at his wrist.

“Fine, fine. But don’t get used to it.”

Perceptor smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated--come talk about deadceptor with me on [tumblr!](http://soundwavereporting.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

Trying to locate Iaconus’s brain module was quite possibly the most infuriating task Dead End had ever attempted. The Titan (if it was a Titan—no matter what Perceptor said, Dead End would believe it when he saw it) was a labyrinth of twisting hallways that usually ended in false doors and dead ends.

Currently, he was running as fast as he could, sprinting towards the single open door in the entire corridor. One hand was locked around Perceptor’s wrist—he was pleasantly surprised the Autobot was able to keep up with him, though he supposed that fear could exponentially increase a mech’s speed.

Dead End skidded to a stop and shoved Perceptor into the room first—little more than a closet, he realized—only for the mass of metal that had been barreling towards them to hit his back, knocking him into the closet, right on top of Perceptor.

It slammed into the doorframe with far more force than Dead End thought was strictly necessary.

“Ouch.”

Dead End rolled over. He shook his head, clearing the sprinkles of static from his vision—his forehead had slammed against the thick armor on Perceptor’s chest. He felt, rather than saw, Perceptor sit up and place a concerned hand on his forehead.

“Reset your optics,” Perceptor said. “I can hear them crackling.”

Dead End grumbled under his breath but complied, and in a moment, his field of vision had cleared completely—save for the quiet, persistent proximity warning alerting him to the presence of an Autobot transponder within a meter of his location.

Dead End got to his feet, and unthinking, held out a hand to Perceptor. It was only when the Autobot grabbed his hand and hauled himself up did Dead End stop to think.

So he could see that. Huh. Perceptor had said he could some objects though, hadn’t he? Dead End struggled to remember what else the Autobot had told him—though the haze of dangerously low energon levels and the inherent discomfort of being forced to work with a sworn enemy, he found he recalled little else of what Perceptor had told him about his capabilities—or lack thereof. But Perceptor wasn’t complaining, nor was he asking for help, so Dead End stepped away to get a look at the door. Which was now barred by the comically large metal boulder.

“Come _on,”_ Dead End muttered. Experimentally, he took a swing at the boulder. It didn’t budge.

Perceptor made a noncommittal noise and switched on his comlink.

“Clobber. We require your assistance.”

_“On it! Where are you two?”_

“Sending our location now.”

“Maybe I could attach a bomb?” Dead End mused. He had been saving the last of his explosives for when he _really_ needed it. Now seemed to qualify.

“Doing so would gravely injure us both,” Perceptor said. “We do not have time to recover from an ill-fated escape attempt.”

“You have a better idea?”

“Wait for Clobber.” Perceptor turned his back to the door. Dead End’s optics were struggling to adjust to the darkness—the only light in the room came from Perceptor’s dimmed scope. He squinted, trying to determine the size of their current prison. Knowing Not-Iaconus, the chances were good that this room was also riddled with devices just waiting to deactivate them both. “I have provided her with our location. She will be along shortly.”

“Yeah, well.” Dead End kicked the door. “If we’re gonna be stuck here, at least turn on your scope. I can’t see half a meter in front of me.”

“Of course.” Perceptor switched on the scope, illuminating their surroundings. It was smaller than Dead End expected—nor did his sensors detect any buttons, or weak spots in the floor, or hidden traps.

“Great,” Dead End said. “We’re stuck in the most boring place on this Titan.”

“It is interesting that we would be guided here.” Perceptor held out a hand and began walking to the opposite wall.

“Hey.” Dead End took two quick steps forward and grabbed Perceptor’s arm. “I don’t need you falling on your face.”

He guided Perceptor to the opposite wall. The Autobot held out his hand, running it along the smooth surface, apparently feeling for the seams. Or something.

“Sit down or something,” Dead End said. “You’re making me twitchy.”

“Okay.” Perceptor sat, and because Dead End had been holding his arm, Dead End sat, too. “Tell me. What do you see?”

“Uh.” Dead End squinted. “Door’s still closed, obviously. And there’s…nothing else. Like the antithesis of Junkion, or something.”

“Junkion?”

“Junk planet,” Dead End said. “Literally.”

“Ah.” Perceptor leaned against the wall and tilted his head up, as though he was looking at something Dead End could not see. “I remained on Cybertron for the duration of the war. Sometimes, I do regret not being able to see the rest of the galaxy. You know, while I still could.”

Dead End blinked. “Was that a joke?”

“Was it a good one?”

“Not really.”

“Then no.” But Dead End saw a hint of a smile, and the room seemed to brighten incrementally. “Tell me about Junkion.”

“What about it?”

Perceptor shrugged. “Anything you’d like.”

“Uh.” He was still holding onto the Autobot’s arm, Dead End realized, but now it was too late to let go of him without it being _weird._ Probably. Regardless, Dead End didn’t let go. “Well. It wasn’t really a planet. It was more of a mass of garbage that got big enough to develop its own gravity, or whatever. Sky-Byte explained it to me.”

“Fascinating. Is it inhabited?”

“It was.”

Thankfully, Perceptor saved the condescending Autobot speech about genocide and simply nodded. “I would have liked to see it.”

Dead End gingerly leaned back, cringing as his plating came into contact with the wall, only relaxing when nothing immediately exploded or skewed him. “Find us a ship and I’ll give you the tour.”

He had half a second to regret the stupid, blatant, invitation before Perceptor simply turned to face him and nodded. “After we’ve saved the entire Cybertronian race? Perhaps.”

“Yeah right.” Dead End let go of Perceptor’s arm and pulled his knees up to his chest. “I bet we’ll all be back in the Loop by the end of the week.”

“You will not,” Perceptor said. “I promised that you would not reenter the Loop, Dead End. And I intend to keep that promise.”

Dead End scoffed. “Are you Autobots always in the habit of making promises you can’t keep?”

“Yes,” Perceptor said, in the matter-of-fact way that made Dead End wish he could take whatever the Autobot said on blind (no pun intended) faith. “I fear it is an unavoidable trait of being an Autobot.”

“Hah. Good thing I’m not one.” Dead End said. “Hey. Did Clobber give you an ETA? Seems like we’ve been stuck here for a while.”

“Hm.” Perceptor’s scope clicked again, displaying an outline of the Maybe-Titan. Dead End could see his and Perceptor’s transponders, and as far from them as they could possibly be, where Hot Rod, Clobber, and Whirl.

“Of course they got lost.”

“If you’d like to spend all your free time mapping Iaconus, Dead End, feel free.”

“We don’t even know if this thing is Iaconus,” Dead End mumbled. “Could be a old Senate Institue, for all you know.”

"All of the metallurgical analysis I have conducted indicates this structure predates the Senate," Perceptor said. "So, that is highly doubtful."

Dead End shrugged. Then: "I guess that scope of yours is a decent stand in. At least till you get your regular optics repaired."

“Mostly.” Perceptor gestured to his face. “Though I think this time the damage may be permanent.”

“Yeah right.” Dead End snorted. “I’m sure by the time the Quints are gone you’ll have a brand new set of fancy optics.”

“I thought we were going to be back in the Loop by the end of the week,” Perceptor said, though his voice was light. “Have you changed your opinion on our chances of success?”

“Nope.” Dead End crossed his arms and dared to look back at Perceptor. “I—”

His only warning that Perceptor was about to move was a quick chirp in his HUD. Before Dead End could react, Perceptor had shoved him against the wall, just as Clobber effortlessly punched her way through the obstacle.

“Hey!” Clobber stood proudly in the doorway, hands on her waist. Hot Rod and Whirl peeked out from behind her. “You guys okay?”

“Get off me,” Dead End muttered, staggering to his feet, but held out a hand for Perceptor to take hold of. “We’re _fine._ Thanks for taking the long way around.”

“From now on, we’ll stay together,” Hot Rod was saying. “Even if it takes longer.”

“Agreed.” Perceptor moved past Dead End to step into the rubble-cluttered hall. “Come on, Dead End. The Titan awaits.”

Dead End groaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ORIGINALLY this chapter hinted at Perceptor having undergone empurata, but I decided to remove it. If you'd like to read the original, the snippet is here (begin right after Dead End mentioning the Institute) 
> 
> “The existence of Institues were misinformation propaganda,” Perceptor said. “Shadowplay and empurata were carried out in Vosnian medical facilities.”
> 
> “How would you even know that?”
> 
> Perceptor turned to look at him, and for the first time, Dead End saw it—no modification was designed to blow out optics after use. But if the mod had been installed after an empurata procedure…
> 
> “Oh.” Dead End looked away. “Sorry.”
> 
> “Others had it much worse,” Perceptor said. “Unlike what many believe, reversing minor frame changes is not impossible. It is simply very, very difficult.”
> 
> “Uh.” Dead End gave in and looked up at Perceptor again. “So, you fixed yourself.”
> 
> feedback is always appreciated! thanks for reading :)
> 
> [come talk about deadceptor with me on tumblr](http://soundwavereporting.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super quick update. now that i've slept on it, i'm noooot sure how i'm feeling about that last chapter. if i do end up deleting it, i'll post a link to the pdf in the notes of this chapter so y'all can read it anyway. this chapter, however, was an absolute delight to write. 
> 
> cw for mild CAH-adjacent shenanigans--[I found the terms for the Cybertron CAH right here! ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10085459/chapters/22474085)

It was raining.

Which would have been fine—the rain messed with the Quint’s sensors.

However, the rain _also_ prevented Perceptor’s scope from working properly.

_And_ Soundwave was still glitching.

“If I didn’t know better,” Clobber said. “I’d say the Quintessons knew we were coming.”

“They could not know that,” Soundwave said, as though any of them actually knew what the Quints were capable of. “This is merely bad luck.”

“It is unfortunate,” Perceptor said. “But it does give us additional time to prepare.”

“What else could we do?” Hot Rod was pacing, though the sound of his footsteps were nearly inaudible over the pounding rain. “We’ve got our intel, we know what we’re up against. What else is there?”

“Another indication you are no Optimus Prime,” Soundwave said. “He would know what to do.”

“Well he’s not here,” Hot Rod snapped. “But if you want to go stick yourself in that parade all day trying to get him out, _be my guest.”_

_“Enough.”_

Dead End was sitting at the bar, trying very hard to look like he wasn’t eavesdropping, but when Perceptor spoke, he gave in and looked up. 

Mac was leaning on the counter, not even bothering to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping.

“You know,” Mac said, in that tone of voice that hinted at the fact that he was about to make a suggestion that wasn’t actually a suggestion. “You two _could_ spend this extra time getting to know each other a little better.”

“Oh that’s _great,_ Mac,” Hot Rod muttered. “‘Hey Soundwave, what’s your favorite color? Do you like your energon chilled, or room temperature?”

“What Maccadam meant was spending time in the training simulator,” Perceptor said. “I think.”

“That was certainly what I meant,” Mac said. “Perceptor, if I can trust you to keep Dead End’s glass full, I will gladly escort these to over to Iaconus’s training sim.”

“Of course.”

Dead End watched as Perceptor vaulted over the counter. He wondered if he could emulate the Autobot’s graceful leap, then spent another moment wondering why he was even thinking that.

Maccadam guided Soundwave and Hot Rod over to the back room.

“Hey.” Clobber had moved from the door over to her usual booth. “We’ve still got an unfinished round of Chips Against Cybertron. Anyone in?”

“I’m in!”

“Percy?” Clobber’s optic was wide. hopeful. _“Dead End?”_

“Don’t look at me.”

“C’mon. The box says you need at least three bots to play.”

“Dead End and I will play,” Perceptor said. “However, he will need to read the cards for me.”

“Awesome!”

“Hey—I never agreed to that.”

This time, Perceptor didn’t leap over the counter. He walked around, only to place a gently insistent hand on Dead End’s shoulder.

Dead End groaned. He slid out of the chair and followed Perceptor to Clobber’s booth, activating the optical interface port in his neck. 

Perceptor had moved to sit, but froze briefly, turning to face Dead End.

“What are you doing?”

“Uh.” Dead End gestured awkwardly to his port, which was rather difficult, considering it was at the back of his head. “Reading the cards for you.”

“Ah.” Perceptor’s voice was quiet, and for the first time in their association, Dead End ascribed the word _uncomfortable_ to the Autobot’s behavior. “I meant that you could read them. Out loud.”

“Oh.” Dead End wondered if he had it in him to be embarrassed. “Well, if we read them aloud, then Whirl and Clobber will know what cards we have. So.”

“I see.” Perceptor sat, and Dead End heard the sound of Perceptor’s optical interface module engaging. “Well then—here you go.”

Clobber and Whirl had been busy shuffling the deck, only looking up when Dead End took a seat. Perceptor held out his interface cable. Wondering if it was normal for his hand to have spontaneously developed a tremor, Dead End accepted and plugged Perceptor into his optical feed.

Dead End didn’t miss the Autobot’s soft exclamation as he bypassed his firewalls, giving Perceptor a crystal-clear view of Clobber and Whirl.

“Like what you see?” Whirl’s voice felt louder than normal.

“I did not expect Clobber to be so…” Perceptor trailed off. “Colorful.”

“Thanks!” Clobber held out her arms for examination. Obligingly, Dead End looked at the Decepticon’s purple-green armor. “Now, should we start? I kinda want to finish before Soundwave comes back.”

“Me too.”

“The rules say that the mech who last had their coolant changed is the leader,” Clobber said. “Except, I don’t remember the last time I had my coolant changed. Not since we left Earth, probably.”

“I got mine changed a couple cycles ago,” Whirl supplied. “After our first game.”

“Hm. Dead End? Perceptor?”

“Can’t remember,” Dead End said, honestly. Perceptor shrugged.

“Alright.” Whirl shuffled the cards pretty well for someone with only one hand, and gave each of them ten cards.

“I’m back!”

Maccadam stepped into the bar. He looked none the worse for wear, Dead End noted—privately, he had expected Hot Rod or Soundwave would have put up a fight over being put into the training simulator.

“Don’t you need to wait down there for them to be finished?” Clobber asked.

“Nonsense.” Maccadam held up a datapad. “I can watch them from up here.”

“Oh.” Clobber shrugged. “Wanna join?”

“Of course,” Maccadam said. “If the rest of you are okay with that.”

“Sure.” He had said that at the same time as Perceptor, hadn’t he. Dead End adamantly refused to look at the Autobot.

“Yeah!”

Maccadam pulled up an extra chair and sat down.

As Whirl handed Maccadam his stack of cards, Dead End (and Perceptor) looked down at their cards.

A really nasty virus

War without end

Science

Police brutality

Explosions

Starscream

Doing the right thing

Taking volunteers

The Allspark

A steamy affair with a Senator

“Okay!” Whirl picked up a card Dead End suspected had once been black, but was now more faded grey. “I drink to forget - ?”

Politely, Whirl looked away. Dead End held out the cards so Perceptor could see. Which didn’t make sense, now that he thought of it, since he was the one looking at it. Dead End took the cards back. Wordlessly, Dead End pointed to the Starscream card. Perceptor nodded.

Dead End slid the card over.

“O-kay.” Whirl collected the cards and began reading. “I drink to forget…

Energon mining

Galactic domination

Starscream.”

Clobber burst out laughing.

“Gonna go with Starscream!” Whirl said. “Whose was that?”

Dead End raised his hand.

“One point to the Deadceptor teamup!” Maccadam announced.

“The _what?”_

“Dead End plus Perceptor,” Maccadam explained. “Dead-ceptor.”

Dead End glanced at Perceptor, which in hindsight, he supposed had the effect of Perceptor looking at himself. Perceptor shrugged, looking a little too pleased with himself for Dead End’s comfort.

“Your turn!” Whirl pushed the pile of grey-black cards over to them.

Perceptor picked a card and held it out for Dead End to see.

“I will not accept your apology until I receive…?” Perceptor said.

Clobber slammed a card down so hard the table shook. Far more quietly, Whirl and Maccadam slid over their cards.

Together, Dead End and Perceptor collected the cards. Dead End tried not to think about the fact that Perceptor was leaning against him. It was probably— _definitely_ —only because Perceptor wanted to prevent himself from dropping cards or bumping into things, or any of the numerous consequences of having their fields of vision (or lack thereof) misaligned.

Dead End cleared his throat.

“I will not accept your apology until I receive…

A really cool mod

Chunks of dead Predacon - _ew_

Sweet, sweet vengeance.”

Dead End scoffed. “They’re all terrible.”

Perceptor elbowed him.

_“Ow.”_ Was _that_ why he was so close? Dead End elbowed him back. “Fine. Sweet vengeance?”

“That’s me!”

“Good job, Clobber,” Maccadam said. “My turn.”

“When did you get this game, Mac?” Whirl asked.

The bartender shrugged. “I add to it now and again. But I haven’t touched the thing in years.”

Dead End didn’t believe him. He drew a card. Maccadam cleared his throat.

“The mission was ruined by…?”

Hmm. None of the cards fit. Not really. Not even their new card.

Perceptor’s hand had been lingering over Dead End’s hands. Dead End didn’t look up, but he could practically _hear_ the mech thinking.

Perceptor put down the _science_ card. Weird choice, Dead End thought.

Maccadam collected the cards. “The mission was ruined by:

“Science

“Not—“ Maccadam coughed, trying to conceal a laugh. “Giving two scraps about Rodion. And: land mines. I’m gonna have to go with Rodion.”

“Yes!” Clobber punched the air with a fist. “Another point for Clobber!”

Whirl perked up. “My turn, I guess. Uh, oof. Why am I missing an optic? Sorry Percy.”

Before Dead End could draw another card, Perceptor pointed at the _explosions_ card.

“You’re awful,” Dead End mumbled.

“You _do_ want to win this, don’t you?”

“No,” Dead End lied. He looked up. The Autobot was smiling.

Dead End endeavored not to look at Perceptor again—at least until they were disconnected.

“Why am I missing an optic?” Whirl said. 

“A used transport sales-mech

A mech on the brink of overload

Explosions. _Hmm.”_

“Sorry,” Maccadam said. “Hot Rod and Soundwave are done. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“That was pretty fast,” Clobber mused. “I wonder if they worked it out.”

“They probably started trying to kill each other,” Dead End muttered, though he wasn’t sure he believed himself.

“Should we keep playing?” Whirl asked. “Cause a used transport sales-mech was gonna win that round.”

Clobber shrugged. Without the distraction of the game, Dead End found himself once again focused on the fact that Perceptor was nestled against his side. Quite comfortably, Dead End thought—to the point where the only way Perceptor could possibly get closer was if Dead End moved his arm up to snake around Perceptor’s shoulders. Which…

And he did want to, Dead End realized. And he could, he supposed—he _could_ shake off the looks Whirl and Clobber would give, and it wasn’t like Soundwave was there to court-martial him.

His firewalls pinged, asking if the temporary permissions he had given to Perceptor should be continued. Without thinking, Dead End extended the permissions.

“Are you all right?” Perceptor asked. “You seem troubled.”

“I’m troubled because there’s an Autobot hooked up to my brain module,” Dead End said automatically, then shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Hey, Clobber,” Whirl said. “Should we, uh, go grab some energon?”

“Um, sure.” As she stood and moved to walk to the counter, she gave Dead End a conciliatory pat on the shoulder.

“Be honest with me,” Perceptor said. “That is all I ask.”

Ugh. Dead End set down his cards and wondered if running into the acid rain would be less painful than this. 

“You’re not…” Dead End groaned. “It’s not you. That good enough?”

“That depends,” Perceptor said. “Is it good enough for you?”

Dead End sighed. He felt like when he was with Perceptor, he sighed a lot. “Fine.”

Tentatively, Dead End lifted his arm. Perceptor was still—but he probably couldn’t tell what Dead End was doing, since Dead End was refusing to look at him _. Ugh._

He looked at Perceptor, and accordingly, Perceptor shifted himself to accommodate Dead End as he laid his arm around Perceptor’s shoulders.

And then Perceptor was quiet.

And it was…okay. Nice, even.

Dead End found himself studying the nonexistent space between their legs. Perceptor wasn’t small, but his frame was certainly lighter than Dead End’s—it would take almost no effort for Dead End to lift up the Autobot and set him in his lap.

Dead End’s plating itched. He gave in and pulled his arm away. It didn’t help.

“I’m going to get a twisted circuit if I keep doing that,” Dead End said.

_“Sure.”_ Perceptor’s hand hesitated over Dead End’s knee. “You—”

“We’re back,” Maccadam announced. “And we’re good. Aren’t we?”

Dead End turned to look. Considering the amount of blue paint transfers on his armor, Hot Rod looked appropriately embarrassed. Soundwave had an equal amount of foreign paint on his armor, but looked far too proud of himself.

“I, uh, heard there was a game of Chips Against Cybertron going on?” Hot Rod asked.

“Yeah!” Clobber seemed oblivious to the paint transfers and pointed awkwardness between their ‘leaders’—or maybe she was too polite to say anything. “I’ll deal you two in.”

Hot Rod and Soundwave settled into the booth—next to each other, Dead End noticed. And noticed just as quickly that Perceptor’s hand had come down to rest on his knee.

Dead End stiffened. He looked down at Perceptor’s hand. He looked at his knee. He looked at his own hand.

Well. He could play cards with one hand, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! feedback is always appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

The Quintesson ship was quiet. After cycles at Maccadam’s, with its continually-humming engex dispenser, and Soundwave’s impromptu mood music, the silence of the Quint ship was very nearly _eerie._

The controls were designed for a creature with far more limbs than Dead End possessed, but he welcomed the distraction. The layout was simple enough, but required a seemingly endless amount of redundant buttons to be pushed and controls to be manipulated. He was getting the feeling some of the controls didn’t even do anything. Typical Quint nonsense.

He was busy, but Megatron was not. The further they got from Cybertron, the more relaxed the warlord looked. To everyone but Soundwave, Megatron’s storming off had been a surprise. Yet.

It wasn’t Soundwave who had sought him out. Perhaps he had—Dead End didn’t know. But regardless, Megatron hadn’t listened to Soundwave—to his allegedly most loyal solider.

He had listened to Dead End.

Dead End had never been this close to Megatron before—he had joined the Decepticons to escape a broken caste system, one the Autobots had no interest in repairing. Megatron—the Decepticons—had promised an escape from the strut-breaking manual labor Dead End had been designed to perform. And Dead End had accepted.

And now he had something else to escape.

“Tell me,” Megatron said. “What made you come back?”

Dead End froze.

“Can’t it be because I’m a loyal Decepticon?”

“Perhaps.” Megatron, who hadn’t been doing any work piloting the ship, pushed Dead End’s hands off the controls, ignoring his protest of _“Hey!”_ “But of all mechs, I would have expected Soundwave to remain loyal to me. Yet, you are here and he is not.”

Huh. So Soundwave _hadn’t_ approached him. At least, not for this. Was Soundwave really that besotted with the Autobot? Or did Soundwave truly believe Megatron could not help their current situation?

“Hm. Fine.” Dead End’s mind spun—he hadn’t anticipated Megatron taking any interest in him. He thought the Decepticon would have simply jumped at the opportunity to escape the universe. And he had.

At first, Dead End considered himself lucky Megatron hadn’t just shoved him out the airlock. Now, looking at Megatron look at him, taking in the sharp, fierce angles of his leader’s face, Dead End began to wonder if he hadn’t been brought along as cannon fodder. Or perhaps bait.

Megatron was still looking at him. Dead End looked at the Decepticon’s optics—sharp and burning and unquestionably _present._

“Well?”

* * *

Dead End picked his way through the piles of Quint corpses. Slowly, it was getting easier to take them down—Perceptor had dissected the one Soundwave brought in one day, turning Maccadam’s into a something that resembled a set from a cheap horror vid. According to Perceptor—and according to the dozen Quints he and Whirl had taken down in the last half hour—their shining red optics were a weak point.

“We did it!” Clobber’s voice echoed in the chamber. “We actually did it!”

“They’re awake!” Lucky mech—Whirl could fly; he didn’t need to get his armor stained walking through the bloodbath. The Autobot transformed, landing smoothly on the platform beside Clobber and Perceptor.

“Uh…” Clobber looked at Perceptor. Then at Whirl. Then back at Perceptor. “Do we need to start fighting again?”

“No.” Perceptor’s voice was firm. “We are done fighting each other.”

“Good plan,” Dead End quipped. “Now you’ve gotta tell all of _them_ that.”

Whirl turned to face the viewscreens. Where a moment ago there had been displays of the endless parade, now there was simply the empty room, cluttered with discarded Quint masks.

“Should we…” Clobber trailed off. “I dunno, go greet everyone?”

“That would be wise,” Perceptor said. Clobber bobbed her head enthusiastically.

“I’ve gotta go find Lockdown!” She was halfway out the room before she had finished speaking. Whirl shifted his weight from side to side, apparently just as eager to get outside and greet his friends.

Dead End waved a dismissive hand in Perceptor’s direction. “Go. I’ll make sure he gets out.”

“Thanks!” Whirl clapped Dead End on the shoulder. “I’ll see you guys around!”

And then he was gone.

In the blink of an optic, Perceptor closed the distance between them. Dead End wondered, if the Autobot’s optics were functional, if they would be shining.

“We did it.” Perceptor reached out and grabbed Dead End’s hand—the first time Perceptor had initiated such an action, Dead End realized. Before, it had always been him, even when they had tried to rescue the Autobot Cityspeaker. He had been the one to grab Perceptor’s hand, to lead him down the aisles upon aisles of imprisoned mecha. It had always been Dead End.

And now it was Perceptor. It was reciprocal, it was mutual, it was wanted.

Perceptor wanted _this_. He wanted it just as much as Dead End did. Perhaps…even more.

Perceptor’s smile—not the wry, strained smile the mech made when he made a breakthrough—but his real, _genuine_ smile had been bright enough to light up that room in Iaconus. Privately, Dead End thought that if Cybertron was ever short on energy, Perceptor’s smile could power the entire planet.

“Dead End?”

Belatedly, Dead End realized he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even acknowledged Perceptor taking his hand.

His processes screeched to a halt as Dead End realized he had no idea what to do.

Was he supposed to scoop the Autobot up in his arms? Drag him down to Iaconus’s training sims, where they’d be safe from prying optics and swap paint until Optimus and Megatron came up with a way to save their species? Ask Hot Rod and Soundwave for tips on interfaction dating?

What he should do was probably pull away. Get out of this frightening, alien place. Go back to the Decepticons.

What he _wanted_ to do was grab Perceptor’s other hand, or better yet—run a hand across Perceptor’s armor. Touch the Autobot decal emblazoned on his chestplate. And then—

Dead End didn’t move.

“Dead End?” Perceptor’s voice was quiet. And for the first time—uncertain.

It didn’t suit him, Dead End thought, in a clinical, detached way. Confidence suited the Autobot far better. His confidence made Dead End think anything— _this_ —was actually doable. Whatever _this_ was. 

In the grand scheme of things, holding hands a few times amounted to nothing. Not with a species that could live for millions of years. Not for a species that had been at war for countless millennia.

Not for him.

The realization—and the immediate, emotional backlash—hit like a blow to his spark chamber.

“Dead End?” Perceptor said, again.

Dead End wondered if the Autobot’s scope was sensitive enough to see how empty his smile was. Whatever it looked like, it felt even emptier.

“Yeah,” Dead End said, and wished he had the ability to remember the feeling of Perceptor’s hand in his own for the rest of his existence. “We did.”

* * *

“I spent enough time with the Autobots to know that they’ll just drag us down with them,” Dead End said. “Spouting platitudes all the way. I bet they’re gonna try and befriend the Quints.”

The lie tasted like acid in his throat.

Megatron made a neutral, disinterested hum.

“Well. Now we will have the chance to eliminate every weak-willed Autobot who stands in our way. Every Autobot. In every universe.”

Dead End nodded. His HUD went red with distress calls—something had happened back on Cybertron. Something big. There were dozens of them—Decepticon and Autobot.

Dead End wondered what Megatron was escaping. He would never ask, and privately, Dead End hoped he would never find out. He turned back to the control panel. It blinked red—according to the Quints, Dead End knew, red was a good sign.

“Engaging multidimensional warp core,” Dead End said. “Stand by.”

And then they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...sorry
> 
> [tumblr](http://soundwavereporting.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHOUT OUT to all of you with your nice comments! plus, a particular shoutout to the anon on tumblr who brought up dead end's optics. the 'dead eyes' line is for you. :D

Blaring alarms and an insistent, flashing green light yanked Dead End from recharge.

_“What did you—”_ Dead End caught himself, abruptly changing his tone as he remembered he wasn’t snapping at Hot Rod or Whirl, but at Megatron. “What happened?”

Thankfully, Megatron was paying no attention to him—the warlord was flipping switches and pressing buttons at random.

“This Cybertron has advanced interplanetary defenses,” Megatron said. “An electromagnetic weapon designed to destroy ships before they enter orbit.”

“Got it.” Dead End squinted—they were certainly in proximity to Cybertron, but far closer to its moons than the planet itself. “I’m putting us down on Luna-1.”

“We are _not_ here to conquer Luna-1,” Megatron snarled. “We are here for _Cybertron!”_

“Landing on Luna-1 will give us time to restart the ship’s systems,” Dead End said, as patiently as he could manage. “And then we can go to Cybertron.”

Megatron scoffed.

For the first time, Dead End wondered maybe, just maybe, Soundwave hadn’t always been _like that._ Perhaps working in such close proximity to Megatron for millions of years had made him _like that._

Dead End heard some probably-vital part of the ship snap off.

_“Dead End.”_

Dead End swallowed. Luna-1 loomed before them—the EM pulse had disabled everything but the manual controls. He had learned the very basics of Quint language during Perceptor's impromptu autopsy, and he thought the _lever_ at the very end of the control panel said landing’.

Dead End pulled the lever and privately thanked Primus when he heard the landing gears engage. It was raining—pouring, actually—and their choice of landing spots was limited to wherever the disabled Quint ship decided to set itself down.

The ship shuddered. Dead End cringed as he heard paneling crumble under the pressure of entry.

The fear settled in his tanks, cold and certain. Dead End felt his joints freeze up.

Dead End closed his eyes.

The impact of the ship landing snapped him out of his fog. Dead End let out a long, slow breath.

They were alive. He was alive.

_“Dead End!”_

“Wh—” Dead End activated his optics and turned to face—oh.

The rear of the ship was gone. Outside, it was raining.

“Uh.” Dead End slid out of his seat. “Luna-1 has shipyards.”

“On _our_ Cybertron,” Megatron snarled. “On this…primitive one? Doubtful.”

“Sorry.” Dead End said, and wondered if Megatron could pick up his lack of remorse. Dead End peered out the viewpane. Their Luna-1 had shipyards, but this one, covered in crystalline trees, did not.

“Get the multiverse drive,” Megatron snapped. _“Now.”_

Relieved, Dead End ducked under the ship’s dashboard. The multiverse drive was undamaged, at least—it was warm to the touch and humming faintly, but appeared otherwise functional. He disengaged the multiverse drive and pulled the components out. Automatically, it compacted into a portable cube, which fit comfortably into his hand. Dead End tucked it into his subspace.

When he looked up, Megatron was gone. Dead End could hear the warlord’s footsteps, his unimpressed snort at their surroundings.

Dead End pulled out his own weapon and stepped outside.

The air was smoky; far too much for their mere (but disastrous) crash landing. Dead End surveyed their hazy surroundings, automatically scanning the treeline for some kind of ground-based accosting, and after a moment of hesitation, turned his attention to the smoke-filled sky. Whatever universe _this_ was, whoever inhabited Luna-1 certainly had no idea of their faction. It _would_ be just his luck to land on a moon populated by Autobots.

He stepped in something wet and uncomfortably crunchy.

Dead End looked down and immediately recoiled. Megatron clearly had no qualms about treading through a pile of recently-deactivated bots, but Dead End certainly did.

_“Ugh.”_ Despite the Decepticon sigil half-visible on the remains of their armor, he didn’t recognize any of them. The closest bot; the one he had accidentally stepped on, was massive. Were he upright and functional, he’d likely be two heads taller than Dead End, tall and broad shouldered, with

“Dead End?”

The corpse had just called him. By _name_. Dead End double-checked his public identifier—it had gone offline as soon as they cleared their Cybertron’s orbit, and was still inactive.

Dead End looked down at the not-corpse. He looked for Megatron, who was at the edge of the clearing, poking at a medic’s scattered field kit.

Dead End knelt down.

The bot’s face was…difficult to look at. What little remained of his chassis protected his spark—Dead End could see it through the shards of armor, weak and fading. That was…disturbing. But expected.

But his optics had been blown out, leaving nothing but gaping, black sockets streaked with energon.

He was blind and dying and alone. But the bot had enough awareness to sense Dead End’s presence, to reach out an arm that was more sparking wire than actual frame and plating and grab Dead End’s knee.

Dead End tried not to shudder at the touch.

“You survived,” the bot said, and Dead End flinched, then endeavored not to look at any of the other corpses. “How?”

“Uh,” Dead End said intelligently. On the flight over, he _had_ wondered whether other versions of himself, and it seemed that question was already answered. “Yes?”

“Idiot.” The word was spoken with soft, foreign, fondness. “Get out of here before he comes back.”

Dead End bit back his next question. Cringing, he took hold of the bot’s hand. Since first approaching Megatron, Dead End had tried manually deleting the memory files of the Quintesson invasion and (everything) that followed. It had failed.

And then he had tried to delete memory files that had been tagged with _Perceptor._

That had failed, too.

He had tried to forget, but still he remembered the feeling of Perceptor’s hand on his own as he powered off that first time, exhausted and afraid, anchored in place by a stupid, stubborn, Autobot’s hand.

The bot’s systems clicked off.

Dead End looked away.

When he was certain of the deactivation, he untangled his hand from the bot’s wires, standing up and carefully stepping over the body.

Perceptor would know what to say. And even if he didn’t say anything, he would have…been there. Been present.

Dead End snarled and kicked at a piece of debris he was reasonably sure hadn’t come from a living bot. It sailed into the forest. He was well aware Megatron was watching him. His bright, suspicious optics shone through the haze of smoke.

“I am turning on my transponder,” Megatron said. “Allowing any surviving Decepticons to locate us.”

Dead End could think of more than a few problems with that. First and foremost, that very recently, someone—more likely, a _group_ of someones—had been here and successfully killed an entire squad of Decepticons. But he wasn’t about to argue with Megatron. Perhaps the surviving Decepticons—if they even existed—would have a way off this moon.

The multiverse drive in his subspace felt like it weighed a hundred tons. Which was a stupid concept—a bot couldn’t feel anything when it was in subspace, and besides, the multiverse drive certainly didn’t weigh that much. Perceptor would have offered him some bolt-headed theory; it was a _perfectly normal r_ eaction to stress, or perhaps the quantum properties of the drive were having an unexpected impact on the subspace.

Dead End had left Cybertron so he _wouldn’t_ have to think about Perceptor. Yet he was doing just that, twisting his internals into knots over what an Autobot he’d known for a hundredth of a fraction of his life would think.

He picked his way to the remains of the ship, leaving Megatron to restlessly pace the perimeter of the clearing. Now that the smoke was clearing, he could sit in the remains of their ship while keeping watch.

For what, Dead End didn’t know.

* * *

The answer came in the form of three beastformers who crawled out of the woods two hours after Megatron activated his transponder. In their universe, beastformers were rare enough that Dead End couldn’t contain the prickle of unease as they approached, limbs skittering quietly against foliage and scrapped frame. For a moment, he debated whether to remain in the ship or join Megatron. It would be safer in the ship, certainly, but Dead End had no doubt that despite his current demeanor, Megatron would toss him out the (metaphorical) airlock the second it benefited him.

Once again, Dead End carefully picked his way through the battlefield.

“Good of you to join us,” Megatron said. “Dead End, may I introduce you to the Insecticons: Kickback, Bombshell, and…?”

“Sssshrapnel.”

Though they had transformed into their root modes, their kibble, their demeanor, felt…alien. Shrapnel’s mandibles were clicking, Bombshell’s hands were twitching in a way that reminded him of the way the beastformers had crawled through the forest. Only Kickback stood still.

“Our new allies have provided some useful information,” Megatron said. “And a solution to the problem our universe faces.”

“Wait. I thought we were here to—”

“To search for survivors of the recent battle?” Megatron said, and Dead End, noticing the dangerous glint in the other Decepticon’s optics, shut up. “But a solution to the Quintesson invasion in our own universe is too good an opportunity to pass up, no?”

“…right.” Dead End nodded. “Right. What’s the plan?”

Megatron smiled.

Sometimes, Dead End forgot why he joined the Decepticons.

He didn’t _literally_ forget, of course. The memory files of his first hundred thousand astrocycles of weak fuel, manual labor, and close, cramped quarters. Megatron and his Decepticons spoke of change—lasting change, not the small, underfunded pilot programs of better rations that faded and died nearly as soon as they are implemented. Real change: a full tank of fuel, habsuites that housed less than ten bots, the freedom to choose your function.

Dead End hadn’t held out any real hope that it would come to pass. The Senate—and if not them, their allies on the Galactic Council—had ways of smothering change before a bot realized change was actually a possibility.

In the haze of war, amidst a long line of deactivated comrades and a few million astrocycles of war…being a Decepticon had become just another job, albeit one far more dangerous than the one he had been created for.

But now, seeing Megatron’s passion, the way his optics shone as he explained the plan, Dead End remembered.

According to the beastformers—the Insecticons, according to said beastformers—the Megatron in this particular universe ruled what remained of Cybertron with an iron grip. Luna-1 was the last stronghold of whatever Cybertronians—Autobot and Decepticon alike—had survived this Megatron’s purge.

The battlefield Dead End and Megatron had landed on was the most recent of a long string of Megatron-led invasions onto the moon.

Dead End had asked, then, why Decepticons were targets. Kickback had scoffed, telling them then that this universe’s definition of a true Decepticon was far, far different than Dead End’s.

* * *

“Why do you do that?” Bombshell asked.

“Do what?”

Bombshell’s face was obscured by a battlemask. It reminded Dead End of his own, disused mask—he hadn’t used the thing since the Cybertronian exodus.

“Constantly recalibrate your optical feed.”

“I don’t do that,” Dead End lied, though he didn’t know why. “How do you know I do that?”

“I hear it.” Bombshell was leading the way to their shuttle, taking such a seemingly random, roundabout route that Dead End was beginning to suspect the Insecticon was just leading him in circles for the fun of it. “Does your universe have different frametypes than ours? Different internal mechanisms?”

“Do I look like a medic to you?”

“I suppose not.”

Bombshell’s preferred weapon of choice was some kind of pistol. Whatever it was, it certainly didn’t look particularly impressive, although Megatron had apparently recognized the model and had been delighted when Bombshell brought it out, saying something about ‘bringing his foes to heel’.

They were trudging through the forest. Or the woods, or the jungle, or whatever Luna-1 was covered in. Native Cybertronian wildlife, Dead End decided.

Dead End was no biologist, and he pushed the insistent, plaintive thought that Perceptor would know out of his mind.

Had the Insecticons not been present to guide them, Dead End would have walked right past the shuttle. Upon closer inspection, it was covered in attention deflectors and strategically-placed foliage. And it was absolutely filthy.

“Nice ride.”

Bombshell scoffed.

“You will get used to him.”

Megatron seemed pleased, at least. He had been speaking with Shrapnel, who appeared to be the leader of their little beastformer group.

Dead End wondered what their endgame was. He was no strategic thinker like Shockwave. He wasn’t interested in developing tactics or exploring the inner workings of a bot’s mind. Perhaps this universe’s Cybertronian resistance was simply desperate for bodies.

Their _plan_ was clear: this universe’s Megatron had his own Matrix. And they were going to steal it. But to Dead End, the particulars of this plan were an enigma. Megatron had brushed off his questions with the same casual, threatening, ease he had addressed Dead End’s inquiries as to why he was suddenly in a rush to get back to their universe.

Dead End wasn’t stupid enough to think that they would never go back. Intellectually, he understood that eventually, Megatron would want to finish what he had started: conquering the universe that had spawned him, that had beaten him down and cast him out.

But he hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

He had expected— _needed_ —more time away. More time away from Perceptor and his crooked smiles, his warm self-assuredness.

Still, Dead End supposed that even when they returned, he wouldn’t need to see Perceptor. There was no edict that demanded he spend time with the bots who he’d fought the Quints with.

The bots who’d saved him from the Quints.

Frustrated, Dead End kicked at the gritty shuttle.

The door, which had opened automatically as Shrapnel approached, slammed shut in his face.

“Hey.” Dead End rapped on the door. Bombshell chuckled. 

“Your ship’s defective.”

The door opened partway. Dead End scoffed. If all the Decepticons in this universe had was a decrepit shuttle, it was no wonder these bots were desperate for backup. He turned to Bombshell. The expression on the Insecticon’s face was inscrutable.

“Ugh.”

Dead End had squeezed halfway through the door, when it slid open entirely. He tumbled to the floor with an inelegant yelp.

_“You told me the Stunticons had all been deactivated.”_

“This one is a transient,” Bombshell said. “He is accompanying the Megatron we told you about.”

_“Ah.”_ The voice, deep and threatening and seeming to come from everywhere, yet nowhere, sounded less than impressed. _“You’ve seen one Dead End, you’ve seen them all.”_

“You’re a shuttleformer,” Dead End realized, though he couldn’t tell whether he was more irritated at Bombshell or the new bot. Irritated, he kicked at a stray rock that had made its way into the cargo bay.

_“Astrotrain.”_

“How descriptive. You make that up yourself?”

_“You’re one to talk.”_

Dead End fought the urge to roll his eyes and turned back to Bombshell. “You didn’t feel like telling me I was kicking a shuttleformer?”

Bombshell chuckled.

“I was merely curious. The Dead End native to this universe had an…adversarial relationship with Astrotrain. I wished to know if you would, as well.”

Dead End got to his feet and glared at the Insecticon. Bombshell shrugged.

_“What happened to the rest of your squad, dead eyes?”_

Dead End thought back to the mech on the battlefield. The one who had known his name. The one who had warned him.

“What squad?”

“There are no Stunticons in his universe,” Bombshell said. “Just one of many fascinating disparities I have so far noted.”

“ _I see.”_

“If you two are done ogling me,” Dead End said, “Can we get on with this?”

Astrotrain laughed.

_“Do you have something better to do? In a rush to get back to a sparkmate back home?”_

“No,” Dead End snapped, and wished he hadn’t kicked that rock so early.

“I would recommend sitting,” Bombshell said. “We will be traveling to Luna-1’s equator, and Astrotrain does enjoy showing off.”

Dead End didn’t need to be told twice. He sat, looking into the main cockpit only to check that Megatron was indeed still there, and hadn’t somehow ditched him with Bombshell and this shuttle.

Thankfully, the flight to the equator was quiet. The silence was only broken by Astrotrain sporadicly updating Bombshell on their native Megatron’s plans, and later, the pelting rain against the shuttleformer’s hull.

“You can’t be serious,” Dead End said, after a particularly ridiculous statement. “Super soldiers?”

_“Laugh all you want.”_

“Unfortunately, Astrotrain is correct,” Bombshell said. “With unrestricted access to Vector Sigma, Megatron has spawned his own breed of Decepticon. And it seems he has finally perfected it.”

“Sixth time’s the charm.”

“Sixth?”

Bombshell had been staring at him again. Dead End had decided to ignore it.

“He started with sparkeaters,” Bombshell said, as though that were the most normal thing in the world.

“Sparkeaters aren’t real.”

“Not until he made them.” Bombshell said. “Admittedly, it was one of his more…unreasonable moments.”

Dead End snorted.

“You will find that any bot can be reasoned with,” Bombshell said. “Despite his…shortcomings, even Megatron has occasionally been open to negotiations.”

“Yeah?” Dead End tilted his head, listening to the steadily increasing rain. He wondered if it was acid, and just as quickly decided that it probably was. “How’s that working out for you?”

“We will see.” Bombshell’s face was neutral as ever. “Perhaps the arrival of yourself and this new Megatron will be enough to change the tide.”

It turned out the rain wasn’t acid.

Dead End stepped out of the shuttleformer and into a cool, pleasantly non-acidic rain. He had barely exited the shuttle when Astrotrain transformed, stretching up to his full height. He was tall enough that his helm was hidden in the mist, just past Dead End’s range of vision.

“Watch your step,” Dead End said.

Astrotrain chuckled. The rain was heavy enough that it had begun washing the grime from his plating, and Astrotrain stretched out his hand and flicked a wad of mud at Dead End’s head.

“I hate you,” Dead End said, quietly enough that only Astrotrain could hear.

Astrotrain laughed.

* * *

Shrapnel’s plan was simple. As he explained it, they would reveal their location to Megatron, Dead End and the Insecticons would cause enough of a distraction to allow their Megatron time to sneak into the command post. Astrotrain would be waiting for them. And then they would exit the universe the same way Megatron and Dead End had arrived.

Something like that.

It wasn’t like the plan was _bad._ It was a _good_ plan, Dead End thought, sprinting through the pelting rain. Elegant in its simplicity. _And,_ the Insecticons had even gotten between him and the other Megatron (Megatron _X_ , the other Megatron, surrounded by a hundred identical bots, each with the Decepticon sigil instead of a head, had proudly proclaimed), telling him to get back to Astrotrain.

They were going back.

For the first time, as the alarms that Dead End instinctively knew came from Megatron X’s compound sounded, that certainty cemented itself into Dead End’s processor.

They were going back.

His spark was spinning uncomfortably in its casing. They were going back. He was going back.

It felt like he had been gone for a lifetime—how long _had_ it been? In this universe, it had barely been two days. But maybe time worked differently between universes. Maybe, in his original universe, it had been far longer. Astrocycles.

Maybe they had lost.

Dead End pushed the thought away the instant it occurred to him.

Astrotrain had stopped his stupid, immature games and snapped to attention the instant the alarms blared. Dead End took a seat and waited—it wasn’t like Astrotrain needed help flying the shuttle.

Dead End let out a measured breath.

They were going back. He wasn’t stupid—naive—enough to believe that Perceptor would simply leave him alone.

And maybe Dead End didn’t want him to.

That wasn’t right.

Dead End _didn’t_ want Perceptor to ignore him, to pretend as though they had never met. He wanted to run up to the Autobot, and…

Dead End wasn’t even sure what to do next. Apologize? He hadn’t done anything _wrong,_ technically. Except shoot Wheeljack and help Megatron abandon the fight, but those felt like things to apologize to the Autobot’s as a whole for, which Dead End was certainly not inclined to do. Grab his hands and recite every saccharine, half-remembered, romantic plea he had ever heard? Pretend like nothing had happened?

Dead End didn’t know.

Megatron stormed into the shuttle minus one optical lens, plus one Matrix. Dead End had never understood Cybertronian fascination— _devotion_ —to the thing. It was a religious relic of a long-gone, terrible era. A powerful relic, but a relic nonetheless.

He wondered if it would actually work.

Astrotrain was quiet—or perhaps he had forgotten Dead End was there. Either way, Dead End accepted the reprieve and stayed in his seat, rather than go back to the cargo bay to sit with the Insecticons, who seemed content to spend the entire journey whispering amongst themselves.

Despite the injury, Megatron seemed pleased. He pushed the Matrix into his chest with an ease that made Dead End uneasy. Watching a bot’s internals rearrange themselves was…unsettling, to say the least.

Dead End wondered if Perceptor had ever seen that happen.

He supposed, with a jolt of excited, terrified, realization, that in all likelihood, he could just ask.

* * *

_“I need to power down,”_ Astrotrain said, once the battle was over, and punctuated his words by throwing Dead End out of his seat. _“Out.”_

Dead End snorted. He stood to leave, taking one last look at the hastily-installed multiverse drive hooked up to the shuttleformer’s systems.

He supposed that if worse came to worse, they could just steal it again.

The Insecticons had closed the door partway through the flight. Dead End hesitated. There were three doors between himself and Cybertron.

Three doors between him and Perceptor.

The Insecticons were still talking. Had they forgotten he was still here? He hoped they weren’t swapping interface secrets, then leaned forward to listen at the door anyway.

_“—quietly. How will he know?”_

_“The Matrix has been implanted with a transponder. He already knows where we are.”_

_“And what guarantee do we have that he won’t do to us what he did to the Stunticons?” Kickback._

_“He will have more interesting diversions. This universe and all its Autobots—and Decepticons—are his for the taking. What are three little beastformers compared to that?”_

Dead End felt his spark freeze. The two doors between himself and Cybertron, which a moment ago felt like a mere step away, now felt as impassable as an acid lake.

“Astrotrain.” Dead End nudged the chair with a foot. “Did you hear that?”

Nothing. The bot really was asleep. Maybe the battle had taken more out of him than he let on. Dead End made a mental note to remember the shuttleformer did have his limits. He opened his comlink, but the planetwide comms network was down.

Dead End groaned and fought the urge to pace.

The Insecticons didn’t know he had overheard. If he could just get out and into the crowd that was forming outside, he would be safe.

Dead End sucked in a breath and opened the door.

The Insecticons were ignoring him—or making a good show of it. As slowly as he thought was casual, Dead End made his way to the opposite end of the cargo bay.

“Dead End?”

He winced, turning around with what he hoped was casual disinterest.

“What?”

One of them—Shrapnel, he thought, but it was hard to tell them apart in the dim light—tackled him to the ground. Dead End was larger than any one of them, but certainly not stronger than two.

“This will only take a moment,” Bombshell said. He was holding up a gun— _the_ gun, Dead End realized; the weird mind control, nudge gun thing that Megatron had been so excited about. “I’ve been told it does not hurt, but…I have never had an opportunity to test a cerebroshell on someone outside of my native universe. You will have to tell me how it feels one day.”

It was pointless, but Dead End struggled. He had a brief flash of hope—throwing Kickback into the wall and staggering to his feet, with Shrapnel still clinging onto his shoulders. Dead End forced the secondary airlock door open.

One door to go.

The impact of the shot was nonexistent—if he hadn’t heard the discharge, he would not have known Bombshell fired, much less hit him. Dead End pried at the primary airlock door.

He felt the joints in his hands lock.

Shrapnel slid off of his back and took one measured step away. Dead End moved to step closer to the beastformer, to grab him and use him as leverage, a hostage, something, but his legs carried him, unwillingly, to stand before Bombshell.

“What are you doing to me?” He supposed, under the circumstances, it was acceptable for his voice to shake. Bombshell patted his head.

“Minor remote body piloting. In a moment I’ll have access to your memory banks.”

His frame was shuddering under the new, unwanted systems invasion. And it was an invasion, he realized; his internal systems were valiantly attempting to fight the foreign directives, and just as quickly realized it was a battle he was losing. Badly.

“Don’t worry,” Bombshell said. “It’s not mind control. You will be aware of your surroundings. I imagined the alternative would be…uncomfortable.”

Dead End’s voicebox crackled static. He had one, maybe two words left before that was gone too, and…

He wasn’t going to say the word he so badly wanted to. The word—the name—that his spark, his brain, his entire self, wanted to go out saying.

“Scrap,” Dead End said, instead.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if/when i can find the energy, i'll go ahead and change the color of the text messages to make it more clear who is speaking. stay tuned for that!

“There is something wrong with him,” Perceptor said.

He didn’t need to use his scope to know Hot Rod was frowning.

At Perceptor’s request, the Autobot had come to Maccadam’s before it opened, under the pretense of helping him set up for the day. But Hot Rod had arrived to find the bar in impeccable condition, with a glass of carbonated energon waiting for him.

“I know you care about him,” Hot Rod said, which was possibly the most neutral thing he could think to say. Guilt shot through Perceptor’s spark—Hot Rod had been through more than enough in the last hundred astrocycles. It wasn’t fair for Perceptor to bother him with interpersonal issues. “But I don’t know what we can do about it.”

Through his scope, Perceptor watched Hot Rod rubbing at the plating on his arm.

“Is the acid bothering you?”

Whilst fighting the Quintssons, Perceptor had treated the injuries covering Hot Rod’s frame with plasma gel. Of course, it wasn’t a permanent solution—only a week in a CR chamber would even begin to heal the injuries left by the acid pools.

He didn’t have much of the plasma gel left, but…

“No, no.” Hot Rod set his hand back down on the counter. “I guess you can’t see it, huh. Wheeljack repainted me—I’m back to my original colors now.”

“Ah. But the acidity of the toxic energon pools permanently corroded your paint,” Perceptor said. “Whatever color you put over it will be a stopgap measure at best.”

Even a CR chamber wouldn’t fix that.

It wasn’t Perceptor’s fault—it wasn’t anyone’s fault, but Perceptor felt guilty all the same.

“I know.” Hot Rod took a drink. “I thought…I dunno, I figured it’d help me get back to normal. One of the Autobots, y’know?”

“No.”

Hot Rod’s smile was small, but genuine. “Besides, we’re not here to talk about me.”

Perceptor nodded.

“You told me that when he came back from the multiverse, he was different?”

“He didn’t even look at me,” Perceptor said, and abruptly realized just how desperate he sounded. “Previous to his return from the multiverse, out of the 1337 instances we had been within his visual range, he had oriented in my direction 95.3% of the time.”

“Huh.” Hot Rod finished his drink. “And you’re sure he’s not just embarrassed? He did leave us to go galavanting around the universe with Megatron of all bots.”

Perceptor sighed. “That is a possibility. But surely he would have understood I would not hold that against him.”

_Would he?_ It had been a question nagging at Perceptor for the better part of the last two weeks. He had believed Dead End trusted him—when comparing their initial interactions to their last ones, Dead End had appeared comfortable. Orienting towards him spontaneously, independently initiating conversation, and…

Perceptor’s scope didn’t have the dexterity to look directly at his hands.

He wished it did. He wished he could have seen, rather than merely felt, Dead End’s hand in his own. Because if that had truly been the last time…

“Okay.” Hot Rod nodded, apparently to himself. “I’ll talk to Soundwave and see if he knows anything.”

“About that.” Optics or no, he was well aware of Hot Rod’s instinctive wince. “How is that working out?”

“It’s okay.”

Hot Rod made a face.

“It’s not. You and Whirl and Clobber are the only bots who know about us.”

“The secrecy is weighing on you.”

“I guess.” Hot Rod tapped his fingers against the counter. “Which is stupid—it shouldn’t matter that no one knows about us. What’s important is that we’re together.”

“You feel as though you are betraying your ideals?” Perceptor guessed. “Or—betraying Optimus Prime?”

Hot Rod flinched. Perceptor immediately regretted it. He opened his mouth to apologize but Hot Rod had already stood to leave. 

“I’m seeing Soundwave later today. I’ll ask him then. ”

“Thank you.” Perceptor hoped his voice was holding steady.

And then Hot Rod was gone.

Perceptor got back to work. There was a never-ending list of tasks involved in running the bar. Most, thankfully, were easily completed well in advance of it actually opening, but Perceptor did still want to try and update the menus.

Perceptor sighed. His fingers hesitated over the last entry—the one he so badly wanted to delete.

Or something.

Half the drink names were odd combinations of two (or more) bot’s names. he remembered puzzling over the names with Wheeljack and Drift when they were younger, trying to figure out which bots Maccadam had named their favorite drinks after.

It wasn’t weird, Perceptor decided, with more firmness than was strictly necessary. If Maccadam _had_ decided to name a drink after himself and Dead End, it certainly wouldn’t have taken much time. But _why?_ In the spectrum of time between Iaconus’s return to Cybertron and now, he and Dead End had been a part of the bar for barely a blink of an optic.

He set the menu aside. Updating the menus would take more time than Perceptor wanted to spend on the project. Perhaps Wheeljack would be willing to take a look at it one day. 

Perceptor wondered what Dead End would have thought of it. Probably scoffed, claimed it was a stupid, boltheaded idea, and then Perceptor would have caught him staring at it later, with a look of fondness he rarely showed around other bots.

He remembered coming— _running_ —back to the bar. Optimus had accepted his resignation from the Autobots (with Perceptor’s assurance that he would return to the Autobots in a sparkbeat if they ever required his help) with a somber smile and a nod, telling him he would be sorely missed.

He expected Dead End to be there. _Wanted_ Dead End would be there. Hoped he hadn’t misread the Decepticon’s intentions. Hoped more than anything he hadn’t scared Dead End off.

The bar had been just as empty as they left it, though a few bots who hadn’t known Maccadam’s fate were lingering outside. Perceptor had burst in, believing he would hear Dead End perched on his usual spot at the counter, or at his booth. And then he switched his scope on, hoping for a half second that maybe Dead End was just laying in wait.

Hiding.

Or something.

What Perceptor had found was a datapad. A note to him, from Maccadam. Turning ownership of the bar over to him _(for now, solely to you, Maccadam had written, though I’m certain in time you’ll be wanting to add a co-owner to the lease. In the meantime, I figured you would need a distraction.)._

Perceptor had allotted himself fifteen minutes to sit behind the bar and wallow in self-pity before getting up and opening the doors to the public.

But Maccadam was right: running the bar _was_ an adequate distraction. It was novel, with enough interpersonal interaction and mundane tasks that he couldn’t think about Dead End all the time, at least.

Perhaps for now, that was the best he could hope for. Until Dead End came back, or…

Perceptor sighed.

* * *

He expected Hot Rod to show up the next morning, with scuffed paint and tired optics, carrying some kernel of information. He _hadn't_ expected Soundwave himself to show up at Maccadam’s, with Hot Rod in tow.

Despite Perceptor explicitly reinstating Maccadam’s previously-unspoken rule of the Oil House being a neutral meeting ground, so far the only bots to show up had been Autobots.

So it wasn’t unexpected that Soundwave was on the receiving end of more than one stare.

Soundwave paid them no mind. He took a seat at the bar, accepting the glass of energon Perceptor pushed his way, then poured Hot Rod’s preferred blend into a glass: half, carbonated energon, half engex, with a dusting of silver on top.

Hot Rod prodded Soundwave. Perceptor was not as adept at interpreting the waveforms on the Decepticon’s display as he was simply listening to Soundwave, but now they appeared rigid. Strained.

“Megatron is planning something,” Soundwave said, as an explanation. “And whatever it is, Dead End is in the middle of it.”

Perceptor looked at Hot Rod. “Somehow, I am not feeling reassured.”

Hot Rod grimaced.

“Tell him the _good_ news.”

“Oh.” Soundwave produced a data slug and handed it to Perceptor. “Dead End’s personal communications frequency.”

“Thank you.” Perceptor tucked it into his subspace. Perhaps after Maccadam’s closed for the night, after he was finished cleaning…

No. He was going to call Dead End the instant the last patron left the bar.

“There’s something else,” Hot Rod said. “Tomorrow. ‘Bee’s gonna jump over the wall to look for Windblade. And we’ll need all hands on deck.”

“I see.” Soundwave had been idly swirling around his glass of engex instead of drinking it. “What do you need from me?”

Hot Rod scowled.

“Megatron knows about the mission. It’s partly a diversion—we’re sending in another scouting party to check out those bots Megatron brought back from the multiverse.”

“They are also involved in Megatron’s plan,” Soundwave said. “Whatever that is.”

“Just in case he had the same idea as us…” Hot Rod trailed off and looked at Soundwave, who nodded. “We want someone watching Wheeljack’s lab. Specifically the data on our planetary defenses and whatever he’s got on unspace.”

“I see.” Perceptor swatted away Soundwave’s hand without looking. Hot Rod looked relieved. Perceptor couldn’t imagine why—had the other Autobot believed Perceptor would be offended by being relegated to guard duty? “I assume you and Soundwave will be leading the second mission.”

“Correct.”

“Because Soundwave is also out of the loop now.” Perceptor guessed. “No pun intended.”

“Correct. Again.” Soundwave crossed his arms. “And Shadow Striker will be assisting Bumblebee, if needed.”

“Understandable.” Perceptor collected Hot Rod’s empty glass and set it aside. “What do you expect—”

“There is one other thing.”

Hot Rod’s smile vanished. “We said we weren’t going to mention it.”

“It’s clear he wants to see him,” Soundwave said, and turned to Perceptor. “Since _someone_ takes offense to my methods of interrogation—if we apprehend Dead End, I would like to put you in charge of extracting information from him.”

Perceptor’s brain module spun as he thought over the possibility. It wasn’t the ideal way he’d imagined meeting up with Dead End again, but…

“No.”

Soundwave tilted his head, curious.

“If our relationship is…possible,” Perceptor said, cautiously. “I will not leverage it to gain information from him. If it is not, I will not be more effective than anyone else.”

Soundwave huffed, a quiet, static-laden sound Perceptor had begun to associate with _amusement._

“I guess you are as smart as you look.”

Hot Rod sighed. Were the bar not full, Perceptor had no doubt Soundwave would have gloated more freely.

“Tomorrow,” Hot Rod said. “Just be ready.”

“I am always ready,” Perceptor said, and wondered if the words sounded as hollow to them as they did to him. “Hot Rod. Soundwave. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Soundwave seemed prepared to say more, but Hot Rod placed a hand on his forearm and Soundwave looked at the Autobot for a moment, then turned to leave. “I’ve gotta get this bot back to his side of town. Unless you’re planning to switch sigils?”

“No.”

“C’mon. Clobber did it!”

“Clobber is a—” the door slid shut, cutting of Soundwave’s retort, leaving Perceptor alone with his patrons, who had given up the pretense of trying not to stare.

Perceptor spent the rest of the night deflecting questions and counting down the minutes till last call.

* * *

Logically, Perceptor knew that the duration between receiving Dead End’s comm frequency and last call had passed at the same rate it did at any other time. His emotional processes struggled to reconcile that fact with the feeling that Perceptor felt like it had been days since he had a moment to himself.

He conducted only the briefest scans of the data slug before slotting it into a wrist port. Despite the circumstances, despite their recent shared life experiences, he trusted Soundwave about as afar as he could throw him. Even if Hot Rod was keeping him in line, he wouldn’t put it past Soundwave to download some sort of practical joke onto the data slug, infecting Perceptor with who-knows-what.

The data slug was clean, containing only a simple string of glyphs and numbers consistent with a bot’s personal comlink frequency.

It was just then that Perceptor realized that he had no idea what to say. An apology, perhaps? But he didn’t have anything to apologize for. Demand Dead End explain himself? That sounded closer to what Perceptor actually wanted.

Or maybe…Perceptor felt his fuel pump stutter. Maybe he would just see if Dead End even responded.

>Dead End

Perceptor sent along his own public identifier: name and faction and rank, and, after a moment of hesitation, his transponder ID. It felt uncomfortably formal—how many other bots did Dead End know that also went by the name Perceptor?

The reply was immediate. Perceptor’s spark spasmed when the reply pinged an alert in his internal HUD.

>>Greetings, Perceptor.

Whatever Perceptor had anticipated, that was not it. But—some bots did communicate differently via chat log than they did in-person. Perhaps Dead End didn’t prefer text communication.

There were, Perceptor was beginning to realize, a lot of things he didn’t know about Dead End.

>I wanted to let you know……….

Perceptor’s fingers hovered over the message. He deleted it and began again.

>Tomorrow. Do you have time in your schedule to talk?

Perceptor sighed and deleted the message.

>How are you?

Perceptor let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and leaned back. He had never imagined communicating with someone could be so stressful—with the exception of video conferencing coworkers while they were busy working in a weapons lab, Perceptor had never before experienced such difficulties communicating.

>>Good. Can’t complain. Energon is decent.

>>Did you want something?

That at least sounded like Dead End, if only marginally.

>I wanted to speak with you. In person.

Perceptor sent the message before he could second-guess himself.

>>Alright.

>>I’ll see when I can get over there.

That seemed to be that. Perceptor closed the chat log.

Somehow, he didn’t feel any better.

* * *

The feeling lasted approximately until Perceptor settled in to recharge.

He could manually shut down his primary and secondary systems. He could switch off his scope, plug himself into the recharge slab, and not wake until a half-cycle before Maccadam’s was scheduled to be opened.

Which reminded him—Perceptor made a mental note to broadcast a message on the relevant channels that Maccadam’s would be closed tomorrow. Besides his meeting with Dead End, scheduled for some nebulous time, there was also the issue of going to Wheeljack’s lab—which was also scheduled for some nebulous time.

Perceptor wondered if there was a chance the two would conflict. He doubted it—even if Dead End showed up in Iacon while Perceptor was at Wheeljack’s, none of the engineer’s projects would hold much interest for him. Perceptor had tried to spark conversation with Dead End about basic engineering. He had imagined that if nothing else, Dead End would be interested in engineering as it applied to weaponry, but even those topics had been only marginally successful.

Regardless—by this time tomorrow, he and Dead End would have met. And, if nothing else, _talked._ And hopefully, Perceptor would feel a little better about this—whatever it was.

For what felt like the umpteenth time that day, Perceptor sighed. He disabled all alerts in his HUD and switched off his scope, then instituted manual shutdown.

* * *

Perceptor woke to an insistent pinging in his HUD.

Slowly, he sat up—he had disabled alerts before recharge, hadn’t he? Curious, he accessed the message that had awoken him.

It was from Soundwave. Of course—if there was anyone that knew how to circumvent someone’s scheduled disconnection time, it would be Soundwave.

>>Whenever you’re ready. Hot Rod and I are at the wall.

>I will be at Wheeljack’s in five minutes.

>>Make it four.

Were he able, Perceptor would have rolled his optics. Privately, he wondered what Hot Rod saw in the mech, though he supposed Hot Rod could say the same thing about Dead End.

Perceptor sent out the notice of Maccadam’s closure, complete with a brief apology and a statement that the establishment would be open for normal business hours the following astrocycle. By Perceptor’s estimate, the walk to Wheeljack’s lab would likely take less than three minutes.

This early in the morning, the streets of Iacon were quiet. There was enough space in the Titan-turned-city-turned-Titan-turned-city-again to house the entire Cybertronian population a thousandfold. As it was, the Autobots that hadn’t emigrated to the outskirts of Autobot-controlled territory were mostly contained to a few city blocks. Autobot headquarters was at the center of the populated area, along with the newly-constructed Cheetor Memorial Hospital. Iaconus’s last transformation had situated Maccadam’s right at the edge of Iacon’s population center. Perceptor wondered if the Titan had consciously chosen to rearrange himself in that way, or if Maccadam’s relocation had been a natural consequence of the Titan’s abrupt beheading.

His comlink beeped.

>>Is your transponder on? Where are you?

Perceptor had nearly snapped a retort into his speech-to-text program before realizing it was Dead End. He dared to hope that Dead End was as eager as he—had Dead End also had a restless night?

>I’m in transit.

>>…

>>Where are you going?

Perceptor hesitated. Last night, he hadn’t imagined his illicit rendezvous with Dead End would conflict with keeping watch over Wheeljack’s data. But this morning, in the cold, empty streets…

Maybe it would be better to meet at Wheeljack’s lab. It was a relatively neutral location—Perceptor had only been there once, for the grand opening. It held none of the emotional connection Maccadam’s did.

>I will transmit my coordinates when I arrive.

Perceptor hesitated. When he spoke, he was grateful the speech-to-text program was capable of understanding his wavering voice.

>I will see you shortly.

>>See you.

Giving up all pretense of remaining calm, Perceptor jogged the last half block to Wheeljack’s lab. As he had anticipated, the building was entirely empty—it was likely too early for lab assistants or even patrols. As he stepped into the elevator, he sent a message to Soundwave, informing him that he was indeed at Wheeljack’s.

Soundwave’s reply was as brief as it was insincere. Perceptor fought the urge to snort.

Stepping out of the elevator, he scanned the room. Wheeljack’s lab was functionally chaotic—though he was here to guard schematics and data, Perceptor wouldn’t have the first idea where to begin looking for it. He carefully stepped over a half-complete thingamajig and picked up a datapad addressed to him. He plugged into the ‘pad manually, scanning over a thank-you note from Wheeljack, the guard rotation, which was scheduled to begin within the next twenty minutes, and…

Ah. The data he was tasked with guarding had found him.

Perceptor disconnected himself from the datapad and slipped it into his subspace. Wheeljack’s note had given him free rein over the lab whilst the Autobot was preparing for Windblade’s return, unsubtly hinting that Perceptor was more than welcome to take a look at the projects that were undergoing…issues.

Almost as an afterthought—almost—Perceptor transmitted his location to Dead End. If nothing else, working on Wheeljack’s stalled projects would help to pass the time.

Oddly enough, Wheeljack’s lab housed a massive set of windows overlooking what Perceptor _thought_ was the demarcation line between Autobot and Decepticon territories. His scope wasn’t capable of interpreting visual data from that distance—to Perceptor, it looked like nothing more than a hazy sea of white. If Dead End was approaching from that direction, Perceptor wouldn’t see him.

Curious, Perceptor rapped against the glass. It rattled—which was more than a little worrying. From this height, if one of Wheeljack’s inventions shattered the window, the debris would likely critically injure any bystanders below who were unlucky enough to be standing beneath the building.

Perceptor stepped away from the window.

He went to the first of the projects Wheeljack had labeled as ‘stalled, pending further inspiration’. It looked to be a set of optical modifications. Perceptor was irked at the perceived hint thrown his way, but only for a moment: upon further inspection, they were designed for any newly-sparked bots who emerged from the Well with incorrectly calibrated optics. If installed correctly, before the newbuild’s optical calibration was fully completed, no further procedures would be needed to correct the neurological discrepancy within their systems.

It was an impressive goal, if a bit lofty. It was no wonder Wheeljack had gotten stuck. And it was no wonder Wheeljack wanted his help.

Fondly, Perceptor thought back to his custom-built targeting array. Perhaps after Windblade was recovered, he could build another. 

He pulled up what limited data Wheeljack had collected on the initial prototype, and got to work.

He had barely read through the first report when the elevator doors slid open.

Perceptor had been intending to maintain a cool, low-energy demeanor. Instead, he snapped to attention, dropping the datapad he had been reading. It dangled from the cord in his wrist, pinching a nerve circuit until gravity took over and yanked it free.

“Dead End.”

There was no response, which was…odd.

Perceptor frowned. His scope was still active. It clearly showed Dead End standing, just outside the elevator, staring at him.

“Dead End?”

Trying to ignore the feeling of dread building in his chest, Perceptor took a step forward.

“Is something wrong?”

“Hello.” His voice was toneless. Quiet. “I am looking for something.”

The dread—which had dissipated the instant Dead End opened his mouth, surged back into existence, threatening to choke Perceptor.

“What are you looking for?”

Perceptor had been approaching him at an angle, trying to place himself between Dead End and the elevator. Dead End turned to face him. Through the scope, his optics were shining.

“The Autobot Wheeljack has collated data on the phenomenon colloquially known as ‘unspace’,” Whatever was using Dead End’s voice said. “It would do you well to turn it over.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know where it is.”

“You are lying.” Dead End’s frame took a step forward. Perceptor swallowed.

“I would like to speak to Dead End,” Perceptor said. “The real Dead End.”

“I do not understand.”

Was it worth the effort? Perceptor wasn’t sure. His processor spun. He was sure whatever was piloting Dead End’s body was stalling, perhaps waiting for reinforcements. Or perhaps he was scanning the room, trying to determine where Wheeljack might have hidden the data.

But _how?_ The Decepticons had no reason to hijack Dead End’s frame, and besides, Perceptor didn’t know of any sort of technology that would allow a bot to remotely pilot someone else’s frame. He had been keeping an optic (metaphorically speaking) on technological developments within Council space, and to the best of his knowledge nothing in the galaxy could even come close to this.

Whatever—whoever, Perceptor supposed—was utilizing Dead End’s body maintained control over primary and secondary systems, but had failed to spend enough time with Dead End to properly mimic his speech patterns. If it _had_ …

Whatever this was, it had the potential to become very dangerous, very quickly.

“I doubt the real Dead End knows the definition of ‘colloquially’.” Perceptor snapped. “Much less how to use it in a sentence. No offense, Dead End,” he added, just in case there was some part of—

Perceptor’s spark skipped a beat.

“Did you kill him?”

“What?”

Perceptor took a step forward. “Did you—did you kill Dead End?”

His HUD flashed red as an automatic alert popped up—there was hostile activity at or near the barrier.

Primus. He hoped that whatever the rest of the Autobots were doing, it was going better than this.

Dead End’s frame had frozen. Likely, it was receiving the same alert; a warning to cessate any activity and report to its commanding officer in the event backup was needed.

Perceptor lunged.

Dead End was bigger than him, but not by much. His frame staggered back, taking the precious, needed steps away from the elevator. Perceptor had never been an expert in close quarters combat, but he didn’t need to be. All he needed to do was get into the elevator and call whatever guards were on duty.

Or—he could stall. According to the roster, there was a guard on duty, and if they were at all paying attention to the alerts peppering the Iacon communications array, they should be coming up to receive further directions. But while staying put would mean staying with this farce wearing Dead End’s face, but would also mean a few moments to learn what was going on.

And, potentially, how to stop it.

In the meantime—Perceptor pulled his rifle out of his subspace and aimed it squarely at Dead End’s chest.

At this range, a shot would be fatal.

Dead End raised his hands and stepped away.

Again, Perceptor’s HUD flashed. This time, it was Wheeljack, requesting permission to remotely sync their visual feeds.

>>This is WEIRD PERCY Y OU NEED TO TAKE A LOOK. NOW.

Perceptor ignored the message.

Dead End’s frame was pacing, scanning the cluttered workbenches and piles of datapads.

“Perceptor.”

His name was said as though it were an alien, foreign thing, never before uttered by the speaker’s mouth.

“Your name is an appropriate descriptor of your function.”

“You know my name,” Perceptor said. “It’s only proper that I know yours.”

Dead End’s face twisted into something resembling a smile. 

>>PERCEPTOR..

Perceptor deleted the message.

“I suppose I do not play the part of a Stunticon well.”

Stunticon? The term wasn’t in any Autobot intel database—but their databases were limited to this universe. He would need to see about rectifying that at a more opportune moment.

“My name is Bombshell.”

The name Bombshell did procure results, all equally frustrating. There was an Autobot named Bombshell who had perished at Kimia, and a Decepticon named Bombshell who had overseen the K-Class wave before being dispatched by Optimus himself. Neither profile matched this Bombshell—if that was even his real name—and his apparent technical prowess.

>>PERCEPTOR I AM PULLING RANK BECAUSE YOU NEED B TO SEE THIS

>>SRRY I KNOW YOU CAN’T ACTUALLY SEE BUT YOU UNDERSTAND WAHT I MEAN!

Perceptor’s HUD flashed and split. Half of the feed was his scope, watching Dead End—Bombshell, he supposed—rummaging through Dead End’s subspace. And the other half was through Wheeljack’s optics, where…

Perceptor supposed the most accurate descriptor would be: a mess.

He spotted Soundwave and Hot Rod in Wheeljack’s peripheral vision. They were fighting, of course, but were also managing not to actually land a significant hit on each other. In focus was Bumblebee, standing protectively over an unconscious Windblade, clawing at his optics. And in front of Windblade and Bumblebee were three beastformers Perceptor did not recognize, apparently unfazed by the small army of Autobots standing between them and Kaon.

>>HE shot bumblebee with something! Tried to get grimlock too but the mech just shook it off

“Ahem.”

Perceptor minimized Wheeljack’s feed. Bombshell had procured Dead End’s weapon and was aiming it at Perceptor’s chest.

Considering where his own rifle was aimed, Perceptor supposed that made them even.

“Ordinarily, I could do this all day,” Bombshell said. “But my friends and I are on a bit of a schedule.”

“Friends?”

With the rifle, Bombshell gestured to the window. “We were alerted to your allies’ intrusion well in advance. It proved an opportune time to make our own move.”

“Is that what this is?”

“Once you give me the Autobot Wheeljack’s data? Yes. If not—I know that he will regret the opportunity to deactivate another Perceptor, but I suppose it cannot be helped.” 

“He?”

The elevator chimed. _Finally_. Perceptor made a mental note to speak to whoever was supervising these guards in Prowl’s absence.

“Enough.” Bombshell retreated to the desk beside the windows and began rifling through the datapads. Perceptor watched, unmoving, as Bombshell tried to keep the rifle aimed at his chest while also looking at the datapad contents. _“Ugh.”_

The building shuddered, and everything outside the window went white.

Bombshell whipped around, squinting through the window at whatever lay outside.

Perceptor pulled up Wheeljack’s feed. Someone had triggered an explosion, close enough to a pillar that the planet-wide barrier had gone offline. Perceptor watched Autobots and Decepticons alike stagger to their feet, clutching their weapons as they surveyed the damage.

“I will be right back.”

Perceptor winced, preemptively anticipating Bombshell’s wild leap through the fragile glass and onto the unforgiving ground. Instead, Dead End’s frame went slack, and horrified, Perceptor watched as Bumblebee, who had been covering Windblade with his own frame, suddenly stood ramrod straight and began walking towards Wheeljack.

_“Perceptor.”_

Perceptor dropped his gun.

Dead End’s hands were shaking, struggling to hold his own weapon steady.

“Get out of here,” Dead End was saying. “You—”

He shut his optics and let out a strained breath. Perceptor dropped his rifle.

“Dead End.”

“You bolthead.” Dead End dropped the datapad he had been holding and staggered back until his back was against the window. “Get out of here. Now.”

“No.” Perceptor took a measured step forward. Dead End flinched. The elevator chimed. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t.” Dead End’s optics were wide. Frightened. “He’s—”

“I’m sorry sir, there is this massive Decepticon shuttleformer outside and he won’t leave and— _oh!”_ the guard yelped. _“Sir get down!”_

“Wait—”

In the same second, Perceptor saw three things: Bumblebee collapsed. Dead End went rigid. Bombshell raised his rifle.

The guard fired. The first shot—a warning shot, Perceptor knew—missed entirely, shattering the glass behind the Decepticon.

His scope detected the shot as a bright wave of energy directed his way. His shields engaged automatically—as long as Bombshell hadn’t modified the weapon, the injuries sustained to Perceptor’s frame would be minimal.

This time, the guard didn’t miss.

Logically, Perceptor knew that the duration between the blast making contact with Dead End’s frame and the impact sending Dead End tumbling out the window had passed at the same rate it did at any other time.

His emotional processors struggled to reconcile that fact with the feeling—the _certainty_ —that Perceptor was watching Dead End fall, in slow motion, out of his reach, forever.

In equally slow motion, Perceptor felt himself run to the destroyed window. His scope refocused on the ground directly beneath the building, expecting—dreading—to see Dead End’s broken, deactivated frame lying bent and twisted on the ground. Instead…

Dumbly, Perceptor watched a shuttleformer, Dead End in hand, transform in a smooth whirl of parts and blast off, in the direction of Kaon.

“Sir?”

The guard was at his side, pulling him away from the window. “Sir, I need to get you to sickbay. You’re leaking energon.”

“I have already sealed off the affected area.”

Perceptor felt his legs give out. He fell to his knees, scope straining to watch the shuttleformer as it streaked across the horizon. His visual display flashed once, then went black—it was a glitch, Perceptor knew, of the scope being pushed far past its limits.

It was an oversight, Perceptor thought, staring blindly at the space Dead End had occupied, just a moment ago.

An oversight he really should fix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, any feedback is greatly appreciated :D 
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr, too!](http://soundwavereporting.tumblr.com)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realized yesterday that firefox hasn't been preserving my formatting when i copy and paste this over from my writing software. expect edits of the first eight chapters at some point!

His side ached.

Perceptor had sealed off the affected area the instant the shot hit his armor. He had subsequently refused to allow Ratchet to put him in the CR chamber, stating succinctly that surely there were other, more seriously injured bots, who would need one. Iaconus’s medical bay had come equipped with twenty CR chambers, though at the moment, only two were occupied.

Perceptor sat on the edge of a exam table, running his fingers across the weld. It stung—certainly not enough to cause pain. But it was enough for a distraction.

Hot Rod had barged in half an hour earlier, spouting off apologies that Perceptor appreciated, but couldn’t accept. After all, he had been the one to invite Dead End— _Bombshell_ —in. And it had only been thanks to Wheeljack’s organized chaos and Perceptor’s foresight that the data hadn’t been lost.

When Optimus had appeared in the sickbay, he had expected a gentle, yet thorough, dressing down from Optimus about compromising the security of Wheeljack’s lab, but that hadn’t happened.

It seemed Optimus had more important things to be worrying about.

Perceptor looked at the closest CR chamber.

No one could remember when Prowl had been moved there—privately, Perceptor suspected Maccadam had found the Autobot at some point before the Quintesson invasion and never mentioned it to the group. His injuries were healing well, Ratchet said, when Perceptor inquired.

Next to him, an unconscious Bumblebee floated amidst the nutrient-rich nanites. Whatever had been done to him at the border had taken its toll—according to Wheeljack, preliminary scans showed a virus had been forcibly downloaded into Bumblebee’s processor, partially hijacking his primary and secondary systems before being interrupted. At some point, the coding had become corrupted—likely due to whatever modifications Megatron’s Matrix had made to Bumblebee’s frame.

The transmitter of said virus lay inert in a stasis cube, floating harmlessly. Perceptor’s scope wasn’t sensitive enough to discern the finer details of the transmitter, but it looked vaguely…insectoid. A little too organic for his liking. Wheeljack had submitted scans of its internals to his contacts on the Galactic Council.

Perceptor doubted they would uncover anything Wheeljack could not.

Now that the wall separating the Autobot and Decepticon territories had was little more than deactivated power conduits, Megatron had agreed to to a meeting. Perceptor had been invited, though he suspected Optimus had done it more out of pity than any belief Perceptor would have something viable to contribute. That was fine—Perceptor had little interest in participating in the endless give and take in Optimus and Megatron’s latest attempt at peace talks.

He wanted Dead End.

That certainty had hit him the instant the Decepticon had last slipped through Perceptor’s fingers. He wanted to have a serious discussion with him, of course—selfishly, Perceptor wanted to know if Dead End had left their universe because of him. But more than anything, Perceptor just wanted to know if he was okay.

He would settle for alive, Perceptor had decided, in between refusing a CR chamber and Ratchet sighing, then directing him to an exam table. Preferably awake and cognizant, free of whatever had been controlling him.

But Perceptor needed him to be alive. 

He hadn’t planned to go to the meeting, but…it would be the place to find out Dead End’s status. It was likely Soundwave would be there, along with whoever the Decepticon’s Chief Medical Officer was.

Perceptor allowed his thoughts to wander as he made his way through the hallways. The ache in his side faded to a dull throb—the weld was more than adequate, and though Perceptor knew Ratchet would brush off any gratitude that Perceptor offered, he made a mental note to thank the medic for not forcing him into a CR chamber. The moment would come, sooner rather than later, Perceptor knew—his autorepair had done what it could for the protomatter surrounding his optics, which was not much. The rest would need to come from a stay in the CR chamber, but there would be time for that later.

_After_ he found out what happened to Dead End.

He arrived at the command station before either Megatron or Optimus. Hot Rod and Soundwave were already present. Perceptor noted their stiff, awkward posture as they tried to avoid staring at each other.

“I told you,” Soundwave said to Hot Rod, when Perceptor stepped into the room. “He’s fine.”

“I know he’s fine!” Hot Rod glared at Soundwave. “It’s the principle of the thing. Perceptor, I’m so sorry.”

“You are not to blame,” Perceptor said. The words sounded far harsher than he intended. “Soundwave, on the other hand—”

“Did you forget the part where I told you Dead End was involved with whatever Megatron was planning?” Soundwave crossed his arms. “It is not my job to vet your romantic interests, Perceptor. You should have expected an incursion.”

“That was not Dead End.”

“What?” Hot Rod frowned. “But I saw the security footage! And it’s the same shuttleformer Megatron brought back from the multiverse.”

“Dead End’s frame has been hijacked.” Perceptor said. He couldn’t be certain of course—he wouldn’t know until a thorough examination of scans of Dead End’s frame and processor.

“Hijacked?” Hot Rod’s voice was quiet. Thoughtful. “Kinda like what happened to ‘bee. Right?”

“The Insecticon shot the Autobot with something,” Soundwave said. “It appeared to temporarily suspend his motor functions.”

“Interesting.” It would certainly be more fascinating were this particularly mystery not so personal to him, but Perceptor pressed on. “These Insecticons. They are from the multiverse, are they not?”

“They are indeed.”

Megatron and Optimus Prime stepped into the command post, with Sky-Byte and Wheeljack in tow.

“I have discovered insurgency within my ranks,” Megatron said. “The Insecticons have recruited Dead End to their cause.”

“He has not been _recruited,”_ Perceptor snapped, and immediately felt the solid weight of Megatron’s stare coming to rest on his frame. Thankfully, Wheeljack took the opportunity to speak up.

“Perceptor’s right. Based on scans of Bumblebee’s processor, whatever the Insecticons hit him with contained some kind of virus. If it had been uploaded successfully, whoever had access to the viral transmitter would have unrestricted access to most everything that makes ‘bee, well, ‘bee. Memory logs, motor functions, speech. Implemented properly, you’d never know something was controlling him. Short of a telepath, I guess, but those are rarer than a cybershark’s tailfeathers. But I _think_ a dimensional processor scan could root them out—if I had something to compare it to.” Wheeljack paused long enough to bring up a scan of Bumblebee’s processor. “I can’t be sure till I examine him of course, but based on what Perceptor said, it seems like the same thing happened to Dead End.”

“Oh?”

When it had first turned on him, Perceptor had refused to surrender to the weight of Megatron’s gaze. He redoubled his determination to not look away, turning to face Megatron fully with unseeing optics.

“And how do you know my soldier so well?”

“Dead End was part of my squad,” Hot Rod said, elbowing past Soundwave to get between Perceptor and Megatron. “We know him.”

Megatron snorted. “If you say so.”

“Where are the Insecticons now?” Soundwave asked.

“We are unsure.” Optimus spoke quickly, before the flash of irritation in Megatron’s optic could morph into true anger. “Their shuttle has been equipped with a rudimentary cloaking device, making locating them…difficult.”

“Hey.” Hot Rod was addressing the room, though he didn’t look away from Megatron. “How do you know they aren’t controlling any other Decepticons? Dead End can’t be the only one. Can he?”

“That is what we are here to find out,” Optimus said. “If the Insecticons have gained control of others, it would be prudent to locate them as soon as possible.”

“Which is why we need scans!” Wheeljack said. “If we can compare scans from Autobot and Decepticon medical records to these new scans, rooting out any sleeper agents should be simple.”

“Megatron?” Optimus’s voice was soft. “What’s wrong?”

Megatron grimaced. “Before returning to the Allspark, Shockwave made the decision to erase every Decepticon’s medical records.”

“Idiot.”

“Well…” Wheeljack trailed off. “If Shockwave was using the data storage software I think he was using, getting the records restored will be simple. Time consuming, but simple. It’d be ideal if we could pull Dead End’s records first, but it doesn’t work that way.”

“I have a scan of Dead End,” Perceptor interjected. “I began a medical record of everyone who escaped the Loop before the mass awakening. Plus a scan of Hot Rod.”

“Thanks!”

Perceptor pulled up the relevant file on his scope.

“The scan is not as thorough as one done with proper medical equipment, but should provide an adequate comparison.”

“Good work,” Optimus said. “Perceptor, send your scans to Ratchet. Wheeljack, start working on restoring Shockwave’s data. In the meantime, Ratchet can start scanning the Autobots.”

“Got it.” Wheeljack looked from Megatron to Optimus. “Anything else?”

“We need Dead End,” Perceptor blurted out, and again, everyone turned to look at him. “Where is he?”

“Under arrest,” Megatron snapped. “Astrotrain has taken custody of him.”

“Astrotrain?” Hot Rod asked. “Big, grumpy guy? Very purple?”

“We’re gonna need to take a look at him,” Wheeljack said. “I’m sure a scan will clear him.”

For the second time, Megatron hesitated. Perceptor saw Optimus’s optics narrow.

“Megatron…”

“He is in stasis,” Megatron said, and Perceptor’s spark skipped a beat. “After sustaining some damage from the impact of the fall from Wheeljack’s laboratory. We are not in the habit of executing prisoners, but I am not about to start wasting resources on a traitor.”

“Turn him over to us,” Perceptor said. “We can conduct the examination for Insecticon tampering and treat any damage to his system.”

“It is an effective course of action.” Soundwave added.

Megatron nodded.

“I will have Astrotrain deposit him. Now.” The Decepticon looked down at Hot Rod. “I’m told I owe you all an explanation for my sudden change of heart.”

* * *

Perceptor spent the time Megatron took to explain his situation talking with Ratchet via comlink. No one in this universe—even Ratchet—had ever treated anyone whose body had been hijacked by a foreign virus.

Perceptor did, however, know how to treat someone who was injured from a fall. It was likely Dead End had suffered injuries to his legs and torso. So he would need a CR chamber, new plating, and likely some physical therapy to adjust to the extensive repairs.

By the time he and Ratchet had finished coordinating the treatment plan, Megatron’s explanation had been offered and accepted, and the Autobots and Decepticons were once again united until the latest universal threat could be defeated.

He really should care what was going on, Perceptor realized. He should care about the renewed possibility of an alliance—a real alliance. A _real_ end to the war.

His world had narrowed down to the cold certainty that in some way, Dead End was coming back to him.

He and Ratchet stood at hospital’s landing pad, watching Astrotrain arrive. Perceptor waited, counting the seconds it took for Astrotrain to turn from a dark blur on his scope to a fully realized image. Until now, Perceptor had only seen Astrotrain at a distance. Up close, the shuttleformer was even more impressive—Perceptor didn’t even come up to the bot’s knee when he was in root mode.

Compared to Astrotrain, Dead End was absolutely tiny. The fact that he was being carried in the shuttleformer’s hand, looking like a small, broken toy, certainly added to the image.

Perceptor had stepped forward before Astrotrain had finished transforming. The shuttleformer looked down at him with bright red optics, then wordlessly held out Dead End. In a detached, clinical way, Perceptor noted that Dead End’s leg was indeed injured—it was hanging at an unnatural angle, and his plating was dented and scratched.

He was heavier than Perceptor expected. Perceptor had pulled up Dead End’s service record earlier that day: the Decepticon had been forged as a laborer. It was only after the war began that he had been granted a new altmode. Which made sense, Perceptor supposed; Dead End was too tall, too bulky, to have been born a racer.

He fit in Perceptor’s arms as though he belonged there.

Perceptor held him only for a moment, long enough for Ratchet to summon the aides. Begrudgingly, Perceptor let go of Dead End as he was laid down on the stretcher and connected to machines Perceptor had no name for.

“Come on,” Ratchet said. “We’ve got work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: dead end delays the inevitable. 
> 
> find me on tumblr [@soundwavereporting!](https://soundwavereporting.tumblr.com/) I've been writing deadceptor drabbles for the last day. I may post them all to ao3 eventually, but for now if you want to read them you'll have to look at my blog. 
> 
> as always, feedback is appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for mild descriptions of medical procedures.

Consciousness returned to him slowly, but Dead End was in no hurry to wake up. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so  _ sore.  _

Whatever Bombshell had done to him had numbed his pain receptors—he had been aware of the damage sustained to his frame, both from the shot and the subsequent fall, but he had  _ felt _ nothing. Even seeing Perceptor falling to the ground bleeding, hands desperately reaching for his…

Seeing that hadn’t hurt. 

The irony that the whole reason he had left in the  _ first place  _ was so he could avoid feeling was not lost on him. 

He had been weighed down by a frame that refused to listen to even the most basic commands, but now he felt strangely light. He was still uncomfortably sore, with pain that began at this brain module and ended at his legs, but…light. 

More out of idle curiosity than any real belief that it would work, Dead End attempted to switch on his optics. 

Instantly, the harsh light threatened to short his oversensitive optical nerve.

Dead End winced and shut them off again. 

But it had  _ worked.  _

Hardly daring to believe his luck, Dead End twitched his fingers, marveling at the sensation of his joints moving with just a simple  _ thought.  _

He could hear voices. 

Mindful of the new pain blossoming behind his optics, Dead End decreased the visual input and tried again. 

It was blurry. Dead End reset his optics and tried again, only to receive the same result. 

Strange—besides the alerts in his HUD that had faded into the background and an injury report from the fall, it didn’t seem as though there was anything wrong with him. 

Slowly, Dead End stretched out a hand and touched glass. Confused, he looked down only to see that his feet weren’t anywhere near the ground.

He  _ was  _ floating. Dead End looked at his hazy, ethereal surroundings of bubbles and formless shapes too blurry for him to make out. 

A CR chamber. He hadn’t been in one since…

Probably since his surviving the air strike that had killed his first squad. 

Now that he was looking for it, he felt a cord attached to the medical port within his chest. Eerily enough, he could  _ also  _ feel the repair nanites digging in the plating around his knee, assisting his autorepair, or however they worked. Dead End was no medic—he had no idea how the thing worked. You went in, floated around for a while, and got out more or less healed. 

_ Medics.  _

Dead End pushed through the nanite gel, trying to get a better look at his surroundings. It looked enough like a sickbay. He could identify the faint outline of something that resembled a row of CR chambers ahead of him, and the two bot silhouettes at his right appeared to be a medic examining a patient. 

Startled, Dead End jerked back as his proximity sensors registered sudden movement at his left. 

Someone—

Dead End felt his spark kick into overdrive. 

A cascade of suppressed (smothered,  _ stolen)  _ emotion briefly overloaded Dead End’s processor. Just as quickly, it cleared, and Dead End hit the chamber with a hand, desperate to reach the bot at the other side of the glass. 

Through the haze of coolant and repair nanites, Dead End couldn’t immediately understand Perceptor’s expression. He appeared as neutral as ever, datapad in hand, mouthing words Dead End couldn’t understand. Frustrated, Dead End reset his optics again, fighting against the tubing attached to his chest as he struggled to remain in place. 

Perceptor turned away from him, but only for a second. Dead End’s hands slid uselessly against the slick glass. His eyes wandered to the Autobots side, taking in the discolored paint that surrounded the healed weld, and Dead End drew back. 

He started to call out, to  _ apologize,  _ but took in a mouthful of CR fluid instead. Dead End coughed— he knew the stuff was harmless, but instinct overrode knowledge and he struggled to expel the fluid without accidentally inhaling more. 

A medic appeared at Perceptor’s side. Dead End forced his mouth shut, struggling to hear what they were saying. 

He could  _ hear  _ Perceptor, Dead End realized. He couldn’t understand him, but his voice, his blunt, confident cadence…

Dead End hit the glass again. 

Perceptor took a step forward. He raised a hand, setting it down on the outside of the CR chamber, and Dead End felt himself relax. 

His primary systems requested to shut down. Dead End overrode the request. 

Perceptor seemed to be talking to him. Dead End shook his head, overriding another request for shutdown. 

Perceptor cocked his head. 

Dead End understood  _ that  _ look. He tried to access his comms, but they were offline. Perceptor gestured to the medic. 

This time, his override was ignored.

His hands locked up. 

Dead End sucked in another panicked breath of CR fluid. He could feel the medical override slowly shutting down his body—the slowness was intended to be soothing, Dead End realized, like falling asleep gradually. 

It wasn’t  _ supposed  _ to feel terrifying.

This time, he didn’t bother with dignity.

Dead End shut down with Perceptor’s name on his lips. 

* * *

The next time, he woke to a tube being snaked down his throat. 

The liquid pressure, the weightlessness, of the CR chamber was gone, he realized. 

He felt as heavy as a Titan. If those things even existed—had Perceptor ever been proven right?

Dead End couldn’t remember. 

He shuddered as whatever fluid remained in his tanks was siphoned out, leaning against the faint pressure of hands on his head, keeping him still. 

As quickly as it had begun, it was over—Dead End gagged once as the tubing was removed, but immediately relaxed—the medic had apparently swapped out manual shutdowns for a drip of painkillers. 

Even his legs didn’t hurt as badly as they had…before. How long had it been? A few hours? Days? Longer? 

The gentle pressure on his head was relaxed, as whoever had been holding him steady released him and stood. 

“Let him rest.” 

It was a voice Dead End didn’t recognize.

Probably the medic. 

Someone sighed. 

“He’s gonna be okay, right?” 

Clobber. Dead End felt himself relax—whatever Clobber lacked in processing power, she made up for with loyalty. 

Dead End wished the same could be said of him. 

The medic’s reply was appropriately, amusingly vague. He  _ was  _ fine, Dead End knew. Just…tired. How long had it been since he had last slept, outside of induced shutdowns or stasis? 

“Well I’m stayin’ here. At least till Percy comes back.” 

“If you want. Doubt he’ll be waking up anytime soon.” 

Clobber didn’t reply, and soon enough, the medic was gone. 

He heard her settle beside him, close enough that his proximity sensors pinged a warning. 

Right. He should…probably talk to her. At least  _ thank her  _ for keeping an optic out for him. 

“Clobber.” Primus. He sounded terrible. 

“H-ey!” He hadn’t switched on his optics, but Clobber didn’t seem to mind. “I  _ knew _ that doc didn’t know what he was talking about.” 

Clobber patted his shoulder. “You okay?” 

Dead End bit back a retort. 

“Been better.”

“Oh. Uh.” Now Clobber actually sounded  _ nervous.  _ “You should rest. You don’t sound too good, Dead End.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Come on. Take a quick nap and Percy’ll be back before you know it.” 

“What makes you think I’m waiting up for him?” 

He thought he heard Clobber smile. “Go to sleep, or, uh…oh! If you don’t, I’ll tell you about how Hot Rod and Soundwave f—”

_ “Ew.  _ Fine.” 

“I knew that would work!” Clobber patted his shoulder once more, than withdrew. “See you in a bit, Dead End.” 

* * *

Dead End woke, groggy and sore, to the feeling of a hand on his own. 

Not  _ holding  _ his hand, Dead End realized. Just resting on top of it, ready to be pulled away at a second’s notice. 

Enough of the painkillers remained in his system that he was content to lay still. There was none of the frantic, terrified energy that he had felt in the CR chamber—right now, Dead End couldn’t  _ imagine  _ having that much energy. 

“I know you’re awake.” 

Dead End’s optics snapped online. 

Slowly, he turned to face Perceptor. His neck ached—Bombshell hadn’t bothered to learn the intricacies of his frame. Dead End hadn’t been aware of just how  _ stiff  _ he had been carrying himself (or had he been  _ carried,  _ since someone else had been making the choices for him?) until just that moment. 

He didn’t care.

Perceptor’s face was as neutral as it had ever been. 

“Hello.” 

“Hi.” Dead End swallowed, choking back a renewed surge of emotion. 

Perceptor had been watching  _ him,  _ Dead End realized. Perceptor had been watching over him, just like Clobber had said he would. 

“Clobber?” Dead End asked, dumbly. 

“Clobber was here last week.” Perceptor said. “You’ve been asleep since then.” 

“Oh.” Dead End was certain he could easily sleep for another week, if allowed. He didn’t want to. Not if Perceptor was here. 

“You didn’t fix your optics.”

Perceptor’s lips twitched. 

“Ratchet has more important matters to attend to.” The Autobot’s voice was softer than usual. Was he being quiet for Dead End’s benefit? Or was that just the polite thing to do in hospitals? “Are you in pain?” 

“I feel like Astrotrain ran me over.” 

Perceptor smiled. Dead End felt like he had just won the Velocitron Grand Prix. 

“He was here earlier,” Perceptor said. “Well, he was outside. He wanted to know when you would be available to ‘hang out’.” 

“Idiot.” Dead End resisted the urge to turn his hand over and intertwine his fingers with Perceptor’s. Though…there wasn’t anything stopping him, was there? They were alone. Perceptor certainly didn’t seem opposed to the idea.

Which meant Dead End was the holdout. Again. 

“I’m sorry,” Dead End said, before he could stop himself. Perceptor’s face smoothed back into its usual inscrutable mask. “I—” 

“Why did you leave?” Perceptor asked, abruptly. 

“I was afraid.” 

There. He’d said it, and short of a mnemosurgeon suddenly appearing, there wasn’t any taking it back. 

“Of?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” 

Perceptor’s face hardened. 

“No.” 

Familiar self-loathing crept back into Dead End’s tanks. 

“The Quintessons,” Dead End lied. “There was no way we could have won.” 

“So your little journey to the multiverse was an attempt to even the odds?” 

“No.” That, at least, he couldn’t bring himself to lie about. “That was just me. Running.” 

“You do that a lot.” But there was no bite to Perceptor’s words. The Autobot seemed to relax, and Dead End hated himself even more.

“I know.” 

Perceptor sighed and withdrew his hand. Immediately, Dead End missed it. 

“You should rest,” Perceptor said. “It would do your systems a disservice to push yourself too far.” 

Dead End made a vague, disgruntled noise of acknowledgment. As usual, Perceptor was right. He tore his optics away from Perceptor’s scope, looking instead at the rows of CR chambers. He recognized some of the Autobots—Bumblebee, Prowl, Windblade. 

“Dead End.” Perceptor’s voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. “Rest.”

Dead End switched off his optics. 

“Would you like me to leave?” Perceptor asked. 

“No,” Dead End said, quickly. “…please.” 

“Okay.” Perceptor’s hand came back to rest on his wrist. At the touch, Dead End felt himself relax, and begrudgingly, he instituted shutdown. “Rest. I will stay with you.” 

With Perceptor’s hand on his, Dead End slept. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, feedback is appreciated!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for the description of an anxiety attack (or the cybertronian equivalent) throughout this chapter
> 
> Additionally, I've gone through the past 10 chapters and fixed the lack of italics within the fic. I fixed a couple of typos where I saw them, but overall the content has remained unchanged. It should be more understandable now!

By the third week, Dead End’s life had settled into a comfortable, albeit monotonous, routine.

He wasn’t naive enough to think that Perceptor spent all day at the hospital for his sake—he was clearly working with the other Autobot scientists. But he seemed to be making a point to stay close to Dead End, which…

That had never happened before.

Half the time, Dead End could convince himself that Perceptor being purely professional by sticking around. He and Wheeljack had been examining the slowly-decaying cerebroshell lodged in Dead End’s brain module. It was inert— _probably_ inert, according to Wheeljack, a fact that failed to make Dead End feel any better—rendered harmless after the blaster injury and subsequent fall.

He thought he could feel it sometimes. It didn’t hurt—not exactly. But he could feel pressure just behind his optics, a mild irritation that kept him up at night. The medbay was quiet at night—far louder than having his optics and audio receptors switched off by Bombshell, when the Insecticons wanted to discuss something they didn’t want him to hear (which was often). There was the quiet rumbling of the fluid within CR chambers being continuously cycled. The quiet humming of whatever machines Ratchet had connected him to.

The other half of the time…Dead End wasn’t sure. There was something about the way Perceptor watched him, the gentle, self-assured way he spoke whenever he was addressing Dead End, that made him think this _wasn’t_ entirely professional. That Perceptor still _liked_ him, even after everything he had done.

Regardless, he wasn’t sure.

Another thing that had never happened before: _visitors._

Decepticon field hospitals weren’t exactly visitor-friendly, but here? There was a steady stream of visitors, mostly for the other Autobots, but Clobber seemed determined to visit at least once a day. The Decepticon-turned-Autobot had caught him up on everything that had happened while he was gone, and then some. Thankfully, the other visitors and patients kept their distance, thanks to Dead End’s glares, or more likely, Clobber looming at his side.

Thankfully, Astrotrain was too big to come in, though Ratchet said the shuttleformer had been asking about him. Dead End didn’t even want to imagine that—Astrotrain, with his creepy maybe-innuendos, gawking at Perceptor, cracking the glass in the CR chambers because he thought it would be funny…

Besides Clobber, a few aspiring podcast-bots had tried to float the idea of _interviewing_ him for one of their shows; getting a perspective on the Cybertronian resistance from someone who had been there in its infancy. According to them, Hot Rod had already been on their show, Perceptor refused, Soundwave played ‘Earth meemees’ whenever he was asked a question, and Whirl and Clobber were scheduled to be on one of the more popular podcasts late next week.

Dead End had declined, but…he was reconsidering. If he ever got out of here, it wasn’t like he had a job to go back to. His post-invasion function had been an Insecticon’s puppet. Maybe he _could_ make a living out of selling his story. The idea sounded awful and miserable, but he didn’t exactly have options _._

And then there were the debriefings. Usually, the medic was conducting them—a set list of questions, slightly different every day. But they asked the same thing—what did he remember, what had he heard or saw, how had it _felt._

He hated those questions the most. Hated how the medics optics narrowed. Hated having to describe what it felt like to have his joints lock up, to be a prisoner in his own body. Most of all, he hated the way Perceptor stiffened as Dead End spoke. 

As best he could, Dead End had explained what the Insecticons had been planning: the tracker in the Matrix, the other Megatron. That particular revelation had earned him a brief reprieve from questions and attention for the rest of the day—apparently, Megatron had declined to share that bit of information.

The endless questions, the recycled information, were annoying, but tolerable. Ratchet had stopped asking how it felt only today.

What was quickly getting on his nerves was how much Ratchet _cared._ In the last few days, Dead End had learned more about his condition than he had ever wanted to.

“What I’m most worried about are your emotional processes.”

“They’re fine.” Dead End said, automatically.

“They aren’t.” Ratchet pointed at one of the many data pads that had begun piling around Dead End’s bed, courtesy of Perceptor. “The Insecticons disabled the systems that process emotion. Now that they’ve been reactivated, I need you to prepare for uncomfortably intense displays of emotion.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’re well on your way to full physical recovery,” Ratchet said. “But your emotional subroutines also need time to heal. We _had_ a psychiatrist on staff, but he’s been reassigned to Luna-3.”

Dead End found himself looking at Perceptor. He was standing beside Wheeljack in the lab directly opposite Dead End’s room, probably discussing something science-y and too technical for Dead End to even begin to understand.

A flash of stupid, irrational jealousy shot through Dead End’s spark. It was _senseless—_ from what he had seen in the last week, Wheeljack had never demonstrated anything other than overly friendly Autobot professionalism towards Perceptor. Wheeljack was even friendly towards _him,_ which Dead End certainly didn’t deserve. He had shot the Autobot, after all. Twice.

And yet.

“Dead End.” Ratchet’s voice was firm. “Emotional processes aside, if you’re feeling up to it, I can have you discharged tomorrow.”

“What?” Dead End tore his eyes away from Perceptor and looked back at Ratchet. “Yeah. That’d be great.”

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” Ratchet said. “I’d prefer you not return to New Croaton just yet. Megatron’s still declared you a traitor.”

Dead End grimaced. Unofficially, Megatron had shown up at the hospital one morning and demanded to speak with Dead End, only to offer an apology that was as insincere as it was brief. Officially…Dead End was still under arrest. He hadn’t asked if the Decepticon policy of shooting traitors on sight was still in effect.

“I can set you up with an apartment,” Ratchet was saying. “Close to the hospital, at the midpoint between here and Maccadam’s. Perceptor and Wheeljack live in the same building, so if you need anything—”

“Together?” Dead End said, before his brain caught up to his mouth. He barely had a second to silently curse his stupid, broken emotions before the medic spoke.

“No. It’s intended to be a residence for medics and engineers, due to its proximity to the hospital and engineering labs. But, right now we have a grand total of four medics and engineers combined, so…plenty of room.”

“Oh.” Dead End forced himself to look up at Ratchet. “Better than a holding cell.”

“Yes it is.” Ratchet set the datapad aside. “In the meantime—I want to see you back here twice a week for processor scans. And I’m going to be asking for a guard to be placed outside your apartment.”

“A guard? I don’t need a guard.”

Ratchet ignored him. “It’s doubtful the Insecticons will be returning to retrieve their property, but I don’t want to take that chance. Besides, you _are_ still under arrest.”

Dead End fought the urge to roll his optics. “As long as they stay out of my way.”

“Yeah yeah.” Ratchet stood to leave. “I’ll get started on the paperwork. See if I can requisition you a console or a few extra datapads in the meantime.”

“Thanks.” Dead End hoped he didn’t sound too insincere. He meant it. Probably.

Ratchet made a vague noise of acknowledgment and stepped out, leaving Dead End more or less alone with his thoughts. Dead End leaned back and went back to watching Perceptor.

* * *

The next day, Perceptor offered to escort Dead End over to his new apartment. Dead End agreed readily—it was the first time they would truly be alone since the invasion, and…

He wasn’t feeling up to being _honest,_ exactly. But he did want a few moments to bask in Perceptor’s presence. It was more a formality than anything else: the apartment block was just across the street, and Dead End hadn’t brought anything with him. Clobber had gifted him some scrap metal warped into the shape of a spark flower, but that was small enough to fit in his subspace. It also would have the honor of being the only thing in the habsuite that Dead End actually owned.

His habsuite was far larger than Dead End expected. By most bot’s standards, it was a small, cramped thing, with a recharge slab pushed into one corner, a cheap energon dispenser in the other, and the washroom directly to his right was equally compact. It was clearly designed for someone who only used an apartment to sleep and eat, though Dead End could imagine a workbench could be fit in with minimal effort. The ‘pads Ratchet found for him were stacked in a neat pile on the bed.

It was more than he expected. Besides, it wasn’t like Dead End was planning to do much entertaining.

“Hey,” Dead End said. “You really working at Maccadam’s?”

Perceptor had been examining the room with his scope. Searching for a trap? Or just comparing the place to his own apartment? Dead End wasn’t sure. But he looked up, and his empty optical sockets met Dead End’s own.

“Yes.”

That confirmed that. Until now, Perceptor hadn’t mentioned his new profession, but Clobber had—she had been picking up shifts on busier nights. Dead End wasn’t sure he believed it.

“Why?”

Perceptor stiffened. It was nearly imperceptible: if Dead End hadn’t been looking for a reaction, if he hadn’t _known_ it might happen, he never would have noticed.

“Maccadam signed the bar over to me.”

This time, Dead End didn’t bother asking why—no one knew why Maccadam did _anything._ And it wasn’t like he could ask Maccadam. That had been another thing Clobber told him, explaining how the bot had freed them from the forcefields before deactivating at the hands of a deflected blast.

“Huh.” Dead End reached into his subspace and pulled out the spark flower. In an effort to make the empty habsuite look slightly less pathetic, he set it on the energon dispenser. “So you’re working two jobs.”

“Until the situation with the Insecticons is rectified, yes. I am.” Perceptor’s voice was as neutral as ever. “Are you offering to help?”

“Uh, no.” Dead End said, honestly. “Do you _need_ help?”

“Only if you are feeling up to it,” Perceptor said. “Only if you are willing.”

Dead End swallowed. It _was_ what he wanted, wasn’t it? Time with Perceptor.

“What time do you want me there?”

* * *

Dead End flopped onto his bed. It was far too early to leave for Maccadam’s; Perceptor had instructed him to meet at the bar’s entrance in two hours, leaving Dead End plenty of time to get acquainted with his new habsuite. That this place was _his_ hadn’t sunk in yet: in his entire life, Dead End hadn’t ever been granted a solo habsuite. There had always been barracks, or at the very least a bunkmate or three. In time, he would probably be moved to a communal habsuite once more skilled bots showed up to claim an apartment. 

His frame ached.

Ratchet had slotted an intrathecal pump into his medical port before discharging him. According to Ratchet, what he _needed_ was intensive physical therapy to ensure the stiff, unnatural way the Insecticons had manipulated his frame would not carry over into Dead End’s normal movements. But for the time being, Ratchet’s advice was as vague as it was mildly infuriating: _relax._

Dead End forced his plating to stop sticking to his protoform. It was a vestigial reaction, Ratchet had said, a leftover threat response from the hijacking. Air wafted through the spaces between his protoform and armor. It was a gentle, cool touch.

He wondered how it would feel if Perceptor’s fingers were to slip under his plating, to dig into the sensitive, hidden circuits. He would start with the unarmored segments of his thighs—at least, that was how everyone else preferred to do it—before moving onto the wiring concealed by plating. Perceptor might want to do things differently. Dead End trembled at the prospect of Perceptor’s hands on his frame: as gentle and self-assured as his bearing and words, but designed to elicit something that was as far from calm as Dead End could imagine—and immediately hated himself for it. Perceptor had never given the slightest indication he was even _remotely_ interested in a casual ‘face. And here he was, fantasizing about him.

Dead End sighed.

Now that he was actively _trying_ to relax, Dead End found he could not.

In the hospital, he had wondered if it was possible to manually erase every memory of his time in the Insecticon’s hands. Perhaps, if he had caught Shockwave’s eye more often during the war, it would have been better—it wasn’t like Bombshell had _changed_ anything about him, or modified his frame. Shockwave had not been so kind. Bombshell had just been curious, wanting to know exactly how a Cybertronian from his universe worked. He had declined to ask Ratchet about erasing such a significant portion of his memory logs—he didn’t need any more concern aimed in his direction.

Dead End sat up. He didn’t want to rest. Nor did he want to pace the habsuite.

Calling Clobber was an option, he supposed: she had demanded he let her know once he was discharged from the hospital. Dead End accessed his comlink, then stopped.Until just now, Dead End hadn’t dared turn his comlink back on. He had seen the messages from Astrotrain, demanding to know if he was functional or not, but those numbers paled in comparison to the number of messages _Perceptor_ had left him in the interim between falling out the window and ending up in the hospital.

He didn’t know if Bombshell had seen the messages. For the most part, he had refused to think about Perceptor—the last thing he wanted was Perceptor attracting Bombshell’s attention. The sole exception had been the brief moment he had been freed from Bombshell’s control. It had all come flooding into the forefront of his mind, only to be taken back the instant Bombshell reasserted his control.

It had added another layer of discomfort to an already miserable situation; even now, Dead End felt uneasy thinking about Perceptor, though there would be no punishment or consequence for doing so.

He didn’t need to acknowledge those messages though, did he? Perceptor was just down the hall. An easy walk. Dead End could talk to him anytime he wanted.

Dead End sent a quick message to Clobber, but received an automated reply. She was in the middle of a shift.

Dead End peered out the window. The streets were more or less empty; no one said he _couldn’t_ leave. He could see Maccadam’s up the street, and beyond that, the deactivated fence.

He waited until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He stepped out of the apartment twenty minutes early, having passed the time idly examining the ‘pads Ratchet had provided (mostly imported Earth media, though there were a few Cybertronian classics Dead End had never read). The street was deserted—if nothing else, he could loiter outside Maccadam’s until Perceptor—

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Astrotrain said. Dead End supposed being startled by an irritated shuttleformer was a perfectly valid excuse to yelp and stumble back. He kicked a piece of scrap metal in Astrotrain’s direction and hoped it had knocked out at least one attention deflector. Of course. _Of course_ this was the first bot he saw after leaving the apartment.

“Been busy.”

Astrotrain emerged from the alleyway he’d been lurking in and crouched down to glare at Dead End.

“I was in the _hospital.”_ Dead End protested. “Besides, you don’t even like me.”

“I don’t,” Astrotrain agreed. “I’ve had to make new friends. _Better_ friends.”

_“Hah.”_ Dead End didn’t bother smothering a laugh. “What piston head would be dumb enough to make friends with _you?”_

Astrotrain smirked. “Wouldn’t _you_ like to know.”

“I really wouldn’t.”

“You should meet him.”

Dead End scoffed. “What, your imaginary friend?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up.”Astrotrain’s smirk morphed to a proper grimace. “Don’t be late.”

“Hey, I never—”

Astrotrain transformed and took off in a cloud of dust. When the dust settled, Dead End sighed, opening his vents to coax some of the grit out of his protoform.

Great. Fantastic. He’d been out of the medbay for an hour and he was already being dragged on some imaginary quest. With _Astrotrain._ Maybe if he played his cards right, Perceptor would let him go back to the hospital, where he could live out the rest of his life in peace because Astrotrain was too big to fit in the door.

“You’re early.”

Dead End whipped around to see Perceptor, and was delighted to see the Autobot was smiling. It was a faint smile, invisible if you didn’t think to look for it, but it was there. And it was directed at _him._

“Uh, yeah.” Dead End coughed awkwardly. “Met a ‘friend’.”

“Okay.” Perceptor stepped past him and unlocked the door to Maccadam’s. “The bar opens in fifteen minutes. I can show you where Mac kept the energon and spare glasses, and then we’ll get started.”

* * *

Working at the bar was…Dead End couldn’t say it was _relaxing,_ but it was certainly a nice change. It was dark enough that his badge wasn’t immediately visible, so the number of glares he received was far less than he expected. It was far less crowded than he expected; there were enough patrons to keep him from stopping and _thinking,_ but not so many that it was overwhelming.

And the fact that more than once, his fingers brushed against Perceptor’s...

Could he get used to this, Dead End wondered? Even if he never managed to be entirely honest with Perceptor, wouldn’t working with him be enough? Seeing him smile when a patron thanked him? Watching him make small talk with another Autobot from across the room, seeing how relaxed he was.

No. The sudden hurt was answer enough. He wouldn’t be content with just that, living close enough to touch but never being allowed to.

He would do it when the bar closed. After they cleaned up. The patrons would be gone and he could focus all of his attention on Perceptor—not that he wasn’t practically doing that already. The idea that Perceptor might _reciprocate_ was unmistakably there, frightening in its possibility. Perceptor had held his hand when he was injured, sat beside him when he recovered…it _might_ be an Autobot thing. But maybe it wasn’t.

He wanted to run. He knew it wouldn’t work, but he wanted to _try_. He tried running away once before, and that had left him with a sore frame and a long stay in a hospital. Which left only one option.

The plating in his chest felt as though it were buckling under some immense, unknown pressure.

“I’ll be right back.” Dead End set the tray down beside Perceptor. The Autobot nodded absently—he was more focused on filling a complex order of carbonated ended and copper.

He stepped into the back room. Despite the chatter just outside, the storeroom was quiet enough. Dead End sank to his knees and let out a long breath.

A new, equally uncomfortable wave of emotion surged to the forefront of his processor. His spark was spinning out of control—had he been hooked up to the sickbay machines, Dead End had no doubt they would be chirping in alarm.

It felt like being shot in the chest. If he hadn’t already been on his knees, he would have toppled to the floor.

He was going to do this. One quiet breakdown in the back room of a bar was more than enough. Perceptor would reciprocate. He _had to._ If he didn’t…

Maybe he could persuade Astrotrain to drop him into the nearest sun. In the meantime, he would stay here. Just for a minute.

“Dead End?”

He looked up. Perceptor was kneeling beside him, looking more concerned than he had any right to be. Dead End hadn’t heard him come in.

“Huh?” Classy. Dead End gave in and sat, drawing his knees up to his chest. “What happened?”

Dead End shuddered as Perceptor’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. He wanted to lean into the touch, to crawl into Perceptor’s lap. Primus. When had he turned into such a _sap?_

“You didn’t come back,” Perceptor said. “It worried me.”

“Sorry.” Perceptor made as if to move his hand away, but Dead End shook his head, and the hand returned to its original place. “I had a…something happened.”

“Should I call Ratchet?”

“No.” Dead End switched off his optics. The pain had subsided when Perceptor touched him, dwindling down to a nagging ache. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Okay.” Perceptor’s hand was warm. “Would you like me to stay with you? I will close the bar early—”

“No.” Dead End swallowed. “No. I just need a minute.”

He could practically _hear_ Perceptor’s frown.But the Autobot withdrew, and Dead End heard him stand up.

“I’m giving you two minutes,” Perceptor said. “And then I _will_ call Ratchet.”

Dead End nodded. He listened as Perceptor got up and walked back to the bar. And then he was alone—as alone as he could be.

Dead End counted the seconds, feeling the pain in his chest ebb and flow. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that confessing to Perceptor would automatically fix this: Ratchet had hinted that this would be an ongoing issue. Regardless, he was going to do it. He _had_ to do it.

Dead End stood and walked back to the bar.

Besides Perceptor, he didn’t think anyone had noticed his absence. He offered Perceptor an uncertain smile, which the Autobot did not return. Picking up the tray, Dead End got back to work and endeavored to ignore the issue at hand. At least for now.

The rest of the shift passed quickly enough. The pain in his chest had faded considerably, making it easy enough to ignore. Slowly, the patrons finished their drinks and filed out. Accordingly, Dead End collected their glasses and wiped down the tables.

And then they were alone.

On his part, Perceptor had relaxed as the hours went on and Dead End didn’t collapse in the middle of the bar. There even seemed to be a spring in his step as he and Dead End cleaned up, setting the barstools on the counter and stacking the dirty glasses into the wash receptacle.

Either way—he certainly didn’t look like a bot who was spending all his time working. He looked _alive,_ alive and vibrant and so beautiful, Dead End found himself wanting to look away.

Dead End found himself looking for something to say. He _wanted_ to say something, he realized. Perceptor wasn’t one for small talk. Usually, Dead End was content with that. But tonight, Dead End wanted to break the silence. 

“Good night tonight?”

“Adequate.” Perceptor had been cleaning the menus, but he pushed one over to Dead End, who inspected it with a curious optic. “What do you make of that? Item 37.”

“The—” Dead End had intended to read it aloud, but he choked on his words. On the name. _Their_ name. “Mac changed it?”

“Presumably. He _was_ fond of his portmanteaus.” 

“His _what?”_ Dead End shook his head. It didn’t matter. In his own way, Perceptor had brought it up. Which meant it was time. If he waited any longer, he would never have another chance. “Perceptor?” 

“Yes?” 

He had planned to say something— _anything._ A stuttering confession, a plea for forgiveness. _Anything._

Instead, Dead End hooked a hand around Perceptor’s neck and kissed him from across the bar counter.

Perceptor didn’t react.

Worse, Dead End realized, with a creeping dread that sank into his chest like a well-placed blade— _worse—_ Perceptor stiffened. His frame tensed, and as Dead End drew back, the Autobot’s mouth, previously a neutral, thin line, warped into a stunned frown.

Primus. He was such an _idiot._

Dead End staggered backwards, moving until his back hit the doors. They slid open obediently, and Dead End stumbled into the cold night air.

The streets were empty. Dead End was grateful, though he supposed it didn’t matter who saw him now. He had humiliated himself in front of the single person who _mattered._ The single person in any universe who had wormed his way into Dead End’s spark, who seemed to _care_ about him.

Who Dead End had allowed himself to care about.

Intellectually, Dead End understood that running wasn’t going to work. If he went off by himself, he’d likely run into the Insecticons, or cross paths with some overzealous Decepticon eager to get in Megatron’s rare good graces. Intellectually, he knew he needed to stay in Iacon, where Ratchet and Wheeljack could keep an eye on him and ensure he didn’t turn back into an Insecticon’s science experiment.

He dared to look up. Perceptor was staring at him. For the first time, the holes where his optics should have been seemed foreboding. As though Perceptor could see right into his spark. Into his soul.

And clearly, Perceptor didn’t like what he saw.

Dead End turned and ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](https://soundwavereporting.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (sorry again)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is lowkey dedicated to @seaquestions, whose fic inspired me to finish the first chapter of THIS fic.

Perceptor vaulted over the counter and ran after Dead End, uncaring of the trail of scattered menus and toppled over chairs that lay in his wake.

He was stupid. He was _so, so_ stupid. He should have called Ratchet the instant Dead End began acting unnaturally. He should have kept his scope on Dead End.

His lips burned where Dead End had touched them.

At least he hadn’t transformed—yet.

If Dead End transformed, Perceptor would never catch him.

“Dead End!”

The Deception gave no indication that he had heard Perceptor’s words. They had reached the outskirts of New Iacon—in a moment, they would be at the fence.

He was not built for speed—to put it frankly, he wasn’t built for _running,_ but Perceptor sped up. It seemed to do the trick, though he would not be able to sustain the pace for long.

_“Dead End!”_

Perceptor stretched out a hand and grabbed the Decepticon’s shoulder. Dead End froze—clearly, he hadn’t been anticipating the touch, hadn’t expected Perceptor would catch up to him.

They crashed together in a tangle of kibble and limbs. Perceptor hit the ground—rather, Dead End hit the ground, and Perceptor hit him.

The Decepticon was so warm. It was a byproduct of the frame change, Perceptor knew: Dead End was a laborer-class bot in a speedster’s frame. Was he happy, like this? Perceptor had never thought to ask. There were a lot of things he had never asked, Perceptor realized. First and foremost: _how are you?_

Perceptor locked his hand around Dead End’s wrist. It would be a simple matter for the Decepticon to throw him off, get to his feet, and keep running.

“Are you hurt?” Perceptor asked.

Dead End didn’t respond.

Until now, Perceptor had refused to consider the possibility. But it was there, looking more and more probable with every second. He manually triggered the secondary medical port on Dead End’s arm and plugged in, only to be rejected. Perceptor tried again, with the same result.

The third time, the firewall sent a physical shock through his systems. Perceptor shook off the burst of pain and steeled himself to try a fourth time.

“Knock it off.”

Perceptor hesitated, fingers frozen above Dead End’s port. It _was_ Dead End’s voice: there was none of the strange, foreign inflection that had been present when Bombshell spoke. So that hypothesis was disproven—Dead End was still in control. But…

“Leave me alone.”

“No.” His scope was practically useless at such close range—it was how the kiss had surprised him. From this distance, all Perceptor could see was the outline of Dead End’s chin, and a hint of his mouth. If he wanted to see more, he would need to sit up and move back, which would require letting go of Dead End’s wrist. “Tell me what is wrong.”

“I—it doesn’t _matter,”_ Dead End said, finally. Perceptor recoiled, but Dead End made no move to get up. “You don’t need to pretend to care.”

“Why do you think that?” Perceptor asked. “What have I done to make you think I would not care?”

He wasn’t sure he wanted Dead End’s answer. The guilt had evaporated when Dead End had been retrieved, safe and more or less alive, but now it surged up in full. Perceptor swallowed. He had a new hypothesis. Perhaps it would be easier this way—if Perceptor couldn’t see Dead End’s face, if he said it _himself…_

“I am sorry,” Perceptor said. “I should have come looking for you.”

“What?”

“It was irresponsible for me to ignore your plight,” Perceptor said. “When you did not contact me after returning to Cybertron, I should have sought you out. I should not have waited. I believed you were avoiding me, and I thought I was respecting your wishes.”

Perceptor let out a slow breath. He relaxed his grip on Dead End’s arm and sat up.

“I abandoned you.” 

“No.” Dead End wasn’t looking at him. He was looking up at the night sky. Had he functioning optics, Perceptor wondered if he would be able to see the stars in his eyes. “I lied.”

Carefully, Perceptor sat up. But getting off Dead End _now_ would give him the impression that Perceptor was upset—and he wasn’t. Perhaps he _should_ be. Should he? He didn’t know _what_ to think.

“I told you I left because of the Quintessons,” Dead End said. He was still looking anywhere but at Perceptor’s face or scope. “I didn’t. I left because of you.”

_“Why?”_

Dead End grimaced. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not really.” Perceptor admitted. “I believed we were on good terms. Friends.”

“Decepticons don’t _have_ friends.”

“Clobber does.”

Finally, Dead End looked directly into Perceptor’s scope. “Clobber’s different.”

“Sure.” Perceptor calculated the probability of Dead End running off if he got up, and decided to take the chance. “We can discuss this. Inside.”

Slowly, Dead End stood. He moved as though something in his frame was causing him pain, but he shook off Perceptor’s hand.

Together, they walked back to Maccadam’s. Initially, Perceptor had wanted to bring Dead End back to his apartment—or better yet, the hospital. But Maccadam’s was neutral, a place with shared memories. Instead, Perceptor took note of Dead End’s gait, the stiff, unnatural way he still carried himself as Perceptor guided him into a booth.

“Okay.” Perceptor had strategically placed himself between Dead End and the door. Dead End didn’t seem to notice. “Talk.”

Dead End nodded.

“When you grabbed my hand, after you and Clobber woke everyone up. That was when I realized I had to leave.”

Perceptor refused to ask _why_ again. By now, it was clear that Dead End either genuinely didn’t know, _or_ he wasn’t able to articulate it.

“You did seem uncertain.”

“Yeah.” Dead End seemed to draw into himself. He looked small and afraid, and Perceptor had to resist the urge to touch him. It was strange—Perceptor had never been one for physical displays of affection, public or otherwise. But there was something about Dead End, something about the way he was wound so tightly, the way his smile looked so natural on his normally dour features…

“It was...”

Dead End looked away. Perceptor waited.

“It was different,” Dead End said. “When it was just me. Uh, admiring you.”

A weight Perceptor hadn’t known existed was lifted from his chest.

_Admiring._

And then Perceptor understood. So far, his hypotheses had been disproven, but this time, Perceptor knew he had it right.

“You should know,” Perceptor said, and Dead End cringed. “You surprised me.”

“Surprised you?”

Perceptor wasn’t sure whether he should be angrier at himself, or at Dead End.

“I cannot accurately see at such close distances,” Perceptor said. “The limited space between us when we stood at the counter prevented me from seeing what you were doing. Moreover, it’s generally polite to ask before you kiss someone.”

“…yeah.” Dead End looked down at his hands. “Sorry.”

“We can always try again.”

Dead End’s head snapped up.

“We are not done talking about this,” Perceptor said. “Nor am I saying I forgive you. But—I understand.”

Dead End was staring at him now.

Perceptor reached out and took hold of Dead End’s hand. Obediently, Dead End came to sit beside Perceptor.

Perceptor remembered the way they had been crammed into the booth while playing Clobber’s game, how he had finally given in and leaned against Dead End’s side. How it had felt when Dead End rested an arm around his shoulder.

This time, Perceptor was grateful for the cramped space. He held up a hand.

“May I?”

“Uh. Sure.”

Perceptor switched his scope off. Blindly, he reached up to touch Dead End, slowly running his hand across the grooves and seams of Dead End’s face. He felt Dead End blink as Perceptor touched the edge of one optic—the spot where the cerebroshell had entered Dead End’s brain module. The injury wasn’t visible to the naked eye; Perceptor couldn’t even feel it. But he knew it was there.

He was prepared to withdraw the instant Dead End displayed any discomfort. But Dead End leaned into the touch with a quiet sigh, and Perceptor used his other hand to trace the edges of the Decepticon’s finials. They twitched, and Perceptor found himself grinning.

“What?”

“I did not think they were capable of independent movement.”

“Yeah, well.” Perceptor could _feel_ Dead End trying not to smile. “They are.”

His proximity sensors chirped a second before Dead End’s hand met his cheek.

“Sorry,” Dead End said, and Perceptor realized he had flinched. “Should’ve asked.”

“You should have,” Perceptor agreed. “But. Continue.”

Dead End mumbled an assent into Perceptor’s hand, but his hand hesitated.

“Will it hurt you?”

Ah. “No,” Perceptor said. “The nerves were cauterized.”

“That must’ve hurt.”

“It did.”

He hadn’t lied—Dead End’s touch _didn’t_ hurt, but Perceptor shivered nonetheless. Dead End traced the jagged edges of torn plating and exposed, dead circuitry. A thumb brushed against the edge of his mouth, tracing a clear line to the edge of Perceptor’s jaw.

Perceptor leaned incrementally closer, taking care not to misjudge the distance and accidentally headbutt Dead End. Dead End seemed to get the hint, and Perceptor felt him reciprocate, leaning closer still, until he could feel their breaths intermixing in the still air.

“Perceptor?” Dead End’s voice was quiet. Uncertain.

Perceptor nodded.

Before this, Perceptor could count the number of bots he had kissed on one hand. The gesture was not something that came naturally to a Cybertronian—it was a learned action, copied and refined over millions of years of interactions with numerous organic races. Its closeness indicated a level of intimacy he had rarely felt with anyone—and others had felt the same.

Obviously, Dead End did not.

Unlike the first time, there was no rush. Dead End was uncertain, brushing his mouth awkwardly against Perceptor’s, till Perceptor leaned in and fully closed the distance between them. Perceptor’s mouth smothered Dead End’s surprise and after a half-second of hesitation, he felt Dead End relax.

* * *

“Good?” Dead End asked, when they finally pulled away.

“Obviously.”

Perceptor switched on his scope. He was still too close to clearly see Dead End, but the sudden sensation of sight was startling nonetheless.

“We should go,” Perceptor said. “I _do_ have to work in the morning.”

“Right.”

Dead End slid out of the booth and looked down at him. Perceptor took a moment to admire his sturdy, angular form, the way his biolights gleamed in the dim lighting.

He wondered if his perception of Dead End’s appearance would change once his optics were repaired. He knew Dead End sported red and black paint, knew that his face was several shades lighter than the rest of his head. But he still had no idea what color Dead End’s optics were. He didn’t know a lot of things about Dead End.

Perceptor supposed that he now had the chance to find out.

“What?”

Perceptor smiled. Dead End’s stance, which had begun to adopt that strange, unnatural stiffness, relaxed. He held out a hand, and Perceptor accepted.

Together, they walked out of the bar. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was 👏it 👏worth 👏the 👏wait?? 
> 
> next chapter: dead end meets astrotrain's friend. 
> 
> finally! i'm genuinely curious as to who you all think astrotrain's friend is...
> 
> not to sound like a youtuber, but! if you want, leave a comment saying who you think his pal is--i won't confirm or deny it, nor will you win anything, but it'll satisfy my curiosity :D


	13. Chapter 13

For the last five minutes, Dead End had been lying in bed, pointedly ignoring Astrotrain’s calls and listening to Perceptor in the washracks, doing whatever it was he did to get ready in the morning.

Dead End had been relieved to find out their rooms were nearly identical in their sparsity—where Dead End’s energon dispenser was decorated with the single scrap metal spark flower, Perceptor had a painting of a t-cog. According to Perceptor, it had been created during one of Grimlock’s pre-war soirees:the Autobot had been testing out a new style of party he termed ‘art and engex’.

Dead End declined another call from Astrotrain. He had no desire to interact with the triplechanger on a _good_ day, and today was shaping up to be…a great one.

Experimentally, Dead End switched on his optics, then sat up and stretched. The stiffness in his frame was still present, but it certainly wasn’t bad enough to prevent him moving. Dead End slid off the recharge slab and made his way to the energon dispenser and filled two cubes.

Aside from the hum of the dispenser and Perceptor in the washracks, it was quiet. Cubes in hand, Dead End made the extraordinarily short journey to the washracks.

Perceptor didn’t turn to look at him, but he knew Dead End was there. Who else _could_ he be?

“Hey,” Dead End said, upon realizing he had no idea what else to say.

“Good morning.” Perceptor’s voice was even. Neutral. Dead End had a half-second to be afraid, to worry he’d done something _wrong—_ after all, he wasn’t used to waking up in someone else’s habsuite and _not_ leaving as soon as he got his bearings—before Perceptor finally turned around and Dead End saw his smile.

“Hey,” Dead End said again, and awkwardly held out a cube. “Uh, energon?”

“Thank you.” Perceptor accepted the cube and took a drink. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine.” It was the truth: he didn’t remember much after leaving the bar last night. He remembered being invited in, following Perceptor into his apartment, sitting on the bed, and—

“Oh.” _Now_ he was embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“Why?” Perceptor was halfway through the cube and Dead End hadn’t even started his yet. “You clearly required the additional rest.”

Dead End cringed, then took a drink from his cube to give him an extra minute to think of what to say. But Perceptor seemed content to talk for the both of them.

“I assure you,” Perceptor said. “I did not mind.”

Dead End let out a slow breath. “Okay.”

“Unfortunately, I will need to leave shortly,” Perceptor said. “Now that you have been released from the hospital, I will be working off-site for the foreseeable future.”

Something in Dead End’s mind clicked.

“You worked in the hospital for _me?”_

Perceptor stared at him.

Dead End looked away.

“Why else would I be there?”

Oh. That…made sense, actually. Knowing Wheeljack’s reputation, knowing the type of weaponry that would be required to repel the Insecticons _and_ Megatron X, it _did_ make more sense for Perceptor to be working somewhere far away from potential collateral damage.

“Dead End?”

He forced himself to look at Perceptor. The Autobot’s gaze softened, and he reached out to take Dead End’s hand.

Astrotrain called again.

Dead End declined the call and considered blocking the shuttleformer’s frequency.

“I do need to go,” Perceptor said, and took a step forward. “But I will be back in the evening.”

As quickly as he thought was appropriate, Dead End lowered his head, catching Perceptor’s lips with his own. Barely remembering to keep ahold of his cube of energon, Dead End rested his free hand on Perceptor’s waist. Perceptor’s hips twitched, knocking comfortably against Dead End’s fingers. Perceptor’s own hands—nimble, dexterous, _scientist_ hands—cradled the back of his neck.

“You don’t _have_ to go to work,” Dead End offered. Perceptor snorted.

“I’m afraid I do. My ride is already here, and I am certain he would be offended if I called out on such short notice.”

Dead End rumbled a halfhearted agreement and let go of Perceptor. He watched the Autobot stuff a stack of datapads into his subspace and grab another cube of energon. He wasn’t sure _what_ to do—should he leave? Go back to his apartment? Walk Perceptor to the door?

With some relief, he noted Perceptor seemed just as uncertain. He hesitated at the door, scope shifting its focus between Dead End and the window.

“I’ll see you tonight?”

Dead End nodded.

“Good.” Perceptor wavered for another second, then strode forward and kissed Dead End once more. “Are you going to stay here?”

“Uh,” Dead End said, relieved he hadn’t been the one to bring it up. “I’ll get back to my room.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Perceptor said, quickly enough that Dead End immediately believed him. “You are more than welcome to stay. I just don’t know why you would _want_ to.”

“I’ll figure it out?”

Perceptor’s smile was small. But genuine. Dead End felt his spark spin.

“I know you will.” He turned to go, and Dead End had to resist the urge to follow. It had been about…twelve hours. He hadn’t earned the right to be clingy.

“Bye,” Dead End said, as non-pathetically as he could manage.

When Perceptor was gone, Dead End sighed, taking in the empty room once more before giving in and flopping on the bed.

His comlink chimed. Outside, Astrotrain blared his siren plaintively.

Dead End groaned.

* * *

He dragged himself outside five minutes later, having finished the cube and steeled himself for whatever idiocy Astrotrain and his ‘friend’ had planned.

_“Finally.”_

Dead End ignored him.

“I need to be back by this evening. At the _latest._ ”

 _“Why?”_ Astrotrain chuckled. _“Hot date tonight?”_

Impatient, Dead End pounded on the airlock door. Obediently, Astrotrain disengaged the locks, and Dead End leapt out of the way before the ramp hit him on the head. He considered the possibility of simply waiting in the airlock until they reached their destination. Here, there was little Astrotrain could do to him, except open the primary airlock door mid-flight and—

Dead End marched up to the secondary airlock door.

“Let me in.”

_“You didn’t answer my question.”_

“Let. Me. In.”

The door opened. Dead End eyed it suspiciously. After a moment, he gave in and stepped through. Nothing.

_“You should have invited me.”_

“To what?”

_“Your date. Your friends are my friends, after all.”_

“No they aren’t.” Dead End kicked the cockpit door. It didn’t budge. “Open.”

_“Are you sure about that?”_

_“Yes.”_

Dead End kicked at the door again. It opened, just in time for Dead End to miss entirely and fall flat on his back. His optics glitched and Dead End coughed out static.

“Dead End?”

Immediately, Dead End sat upright and scanned his surroundings for the source of the voice. Had he fallen so hard that he was hearing things?

No. A familiar red stood out from the sea of Astrotrain’s matte gray and purple.

Dead End stared.

 _“See?”_ Dead End hadn’t thought it possible for Astrotrain to sound more smug than he normally did. He was wrong. _“Your friends_ are _my friends.”_

“How do you—” Dead End gestured at the holo-projection of Astrotrain’s head. “How— _how?”_

“We met when you were in stasis,” Perceptor said. He looked embarrassed, though Dead End had no idea what reason _he_ would have to be ashamed.

It was _Astrotrain_ who should be embarrassed.

“Why are you still—?” Dead End sputtered. “Why?”

“Among other things? We have been using Astrotrain’s knowledge of unspace to develop countermeasures against the other Megatron,” Perceptor said, as though that was the most natural thing in the world. “He is an invaluable resource.”

“More like an _obnoxious_ resource.” A thought occurred to him, and Dead End frowned. “If _he’s_ the expert on unspace, why did Bombshell…”

Dead End pointed dumbly at the welds in Perceptor’s side. He’d been a decent job at ignoring their presence—last night, Perceptor hadn’t even winced on the occasion his hands brushed over the injury.

Maybe it was a _good_ thing he’d fallen asleep so quickly. Accidentally hurting Perceptor was at the very bottom of the list of things Dead End wanted to do.

 _“You think I’d tell those freaks I know about unspace?”_ Astrotrain’s head bobbed. _“Everything I know, I learned from Megatron X himself. Usually while he was torturing me.”_

 _“That’s_ disturbing.”

Perceptor nodded. They were sharing one of the benches behind the pilot’s chair, sitting far too close to be purely professional. Occasionally, their shoulders or knees touched, and Dead End could swear his spark’s RPM was high enough to power a small generator. “Astrotrain informed me of his experiences with Megatron X.”

Dead End nudged the bench. “How come you never told me any of that?”

_“You never asked.”_

Dead End rolled his eyes. He settled back in his seat—they had been in the air for nearly ten minutes and Astrotrain hadn’t tried anything. Yet. He wanted to chalk it up to Perceptor’s presence—for whatever reason, the shuttleformer seemed to respect Perceptor.

Speaking of Perceptor…at some point, his hand had come to rest on Dead End’s knee. And he was _leaning._ Accordingly, fully aware that Astrotrain was watching him, Dead End lifted his arm up to rest on Perceptor’s shoulders.

“Watch out for twisted circuits.”

Dead End grimaced.

 _“He’s_ cute,” Astrotrain appraised. _“How’d you get such a nice bot, dead eyes?”_

“Shut up.” Dead End didn’t let go of Perceptor’s shoulder. “You’re just jealous.”

 _“We could…share.”_ Astrotrain wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Or—Dead End assumed that was what he was trying to do. The hologram was a little fuzzy. _“Two Decepticons. One Autobot. It’s something straight out of a vid.”_

“Interesting proposition.” Dead End cringed. Perceptor patted his knee. “But I will have to decline. Dead End?”

_“No.”_

_“Pity.”_ Dead End was relieved when Astrotrain seemed content to leave it at that. His hologram switched off, and Astrotrain appeared to turn his attention to actually flying.

Leaving him…more or less alone with Perceptor.

“I can’t believe you know Astrotrain.”

“I thought he told you.” Perceptor sounded slightly ashamed, which made Dead End feel…bad. Just a little. “He said—if it is any consolation, he did _not_ tell me he was waiting for you.”

Dead End snorted. “He’s very good with selective information.”

“Indeed.” Perceptor had been leaning against Dead End’s side, but he straightened, only to place himself into a (presumably) more comfortable position. “Besides. You never told me you two were friends.”

“We aren’t.”

The hologram of Astrotrain’s face popped back up.

_“Aw.”_

“Stop eavesdropping,” Dead End snapped. “This isn’t about you.”

_“Whatever.”_

“Astrotrain. I’d like a moment to talk with Dead End,” As always, Perceptor’s voice was even. “Alone.”

_“Anything for you, Percy.”_

“’Percy’?” Dead End said, after Astrotrain had made a show of switching off his hologram. Perceptor shrugged.

Dead End swallowed.

“Do you…want me to call you that, too?”

“Do you _want_ to?”

Dead End thought about the way Perceptor’s name felt in his mouth, the way he’d wanted to think that name for _months,_ but hadn’t. _Couldn’t._

“No. Perceptor’s fine.”

“Good.” Perceptor was tracing the joint in Dead End’s knee in smooth, even circles. Dead End shuddered. “Now—what _are_ you going to do all day?”

“I, uh,” Dead End swallowed. “I’d _thought_ whatever Astrotrain was getting us into would have us arrested by the end of the day. Didn’t know it was _real_ work.”

“Hm. It’s not that I don’t want you here,” Perceptor said. “I just don’t want you to get bored.”

“I…don’t think that’s possible.”

He wasn’t lying. The chance to stick around with Perceptor _all day_ was something that, until recently, Dead End had only dreamed about.

He supposed, under the circumstances, he could tolerate Astrotrain being around, too.

Dead End dared lean his head into the crook of Perceptor’s neck, and wondered why he didn’t feel more uncomfortable.

This was far, far beyond what he’d expected to be comfortable with. To be so affectionate with Perceptor, much less with someone _else_ in the room. Even if that someone _was_ Astrotrain. Maybe _especially_ since that someone was Astrotrain. But Dead End was still tired—the dual shock of falling on his back and then seeing Perceptor sitting nonchalantly in the shuttle had worn off, leaving him on the verge of exhaustion.

Perceptor didn’t seem to mind the newest intrusion into his personal space. From this distance, Dead End could smell the off-brand soap Perceptor used, and beneath it, the faint, acrid scent of an overworked processor.

Daring to feel the slightest stirrings of hope, Dead End thought he might be able to get used to this.

* * *

Eventually, they arrived.

Dead End shook off the haze of half-sleep that had settled over his processor and stretched, feeling sore, misused joints protesting.

“You should ask Ratchet for help with that,” Perceptor said. “I’ve seen you fight.”

“Are you insulting me?”

“I monitored everyone in the training sim,” Perceptor said. “Despite your size, you demonstrated a clear talent for acrobatics. I would hate for you to be unable to move as freely as you wish due to permanent joint damage.”

“…oh.” He _had_ been showing off. Mostly for Hot Rod’s sake. But if Perceptor had seen it… “Yeah.”

Dead End followed Perceptor outside. He didn’t recognize their surroundings—outside of the war, he had rarely been given the chance to venture outside of Ibex. It _looked_ like the Lithium Flats, but to Dead End, everywhere on Cybertron that was desert, mostly flat, and uncomfortably hot looked like the Lithium Flats.

The lab itself was large, and save for a few Perceptor-sized workbenches against one wall and an Astrotrain-sized workbench against another, was mostly empty. Some kind of (Astrotrain-sized) half-built turret occupied the middle of the lab, and there was the distinct smell of radiation.

Behind them, Astrotrain transformed, lingering just close enough that Dead End was constantly on guard, wondering if the shuttleformer was planning to knock him over with a single swipe of his hand. He watched Perceptor pull the datapads out of his subspace pocket and get to work.

In the hospital, Dead End had tried to watch Perceptor work. It had been difficult; as interesting as Perceptor was as a _person,_ Dead End found watching someone on a datapad all day excruciatingly boring, but falling asleep to the sound of Perceptor typing away had been...nice. But apparently that hadn’t been the _real_ Perceptor. _This_ was the real Perceptor, one who split his time between chatting with Wheeljack on a video call and poking around one of the turret’s malfunctioning components as he wrangled it into shape with a soldering iron and a wrench.

Outside of Soundwave and Hot Rod’s painfully awful dance-offs, Dead End had never seen anyone dance before. But he thought Perceptor might be dancing, with the way his feet took him from point A to point B, the confident, self-assured manner in which he carried himself. He was far too engrossed in his work to notice Dead End staring.

Dead End perched on the edge of the workbench and watched.

The relative quiet was broken twice.

The first time, Astrotrain proclaimed their unspace gun was ready to use. Ignoring Perceptor’s protests about _lab safety_ and a _controlled environment,_ the shuttleformer had activated the turret, and fired randomly at the wall. Dead End had cringed, expecting the whole place to collapse on them.

But it hadn’t. Instead, some of the wall paneling flickered out of existence, only to reappear a second later.

Dejected, Astrotrain pulled the turret apart and got back to work.

Perceptor had left Astrotrain to figure out the weapon and moved onto another project—tracking the Insecticons. Dead End watched with morbid fascination as Perceptor produced wads of goo that Dead End, unfortunately, recognized. Bombshell had never bothered to explain _why_ he and his brethren chose to build their beastformer-equivalent habsuite out of half-digested heavy metals, and even if Dead End had been capable, he would not have asked. He was just grateful that Bombshell hadn’t thought to make _him_ help.

“Take this.” Perceptor handed Dead End a scanner, then picked up the dish of metal slop and began walking backwards. Scanning, at least, Dead End knew how to do, but the machine stubbornly refused to find whatever it was supposed to be looking for.

“Hm. There _should_ be enough CNA for the scanner to pick up.” Perceptor was frowning at the goo as though it had personally offended him. “Yet it is unable to find a signal.”

Perceptor retrieved the scanner from Dead End and got back to work.

The second time, Astrotrain again declared the weapon was ready. Before Perceptor or Dead End could protest, he aimed it at (another non-load-bearing, Dead End hoped) wall and fired.

This time, the wall popped neatly out of existence and didn’t return.

Astrotrain whooped. Even Perceptor was smiling. He grabbed Dead End’s hands and spun him around—or tried to, anyway: Dead End hadn’t been expecting it and remained rooted to the spot.

Immediately, the mood seemed to lighten. Dead End remembered sitting with Perceptor in that empty room all those astrocycles ago, and thinking Perceptor’s smile could light up the entirety of Cybertron. It seemed doubly true now—in the early evening light, his smile _shone._ Not in the bright, artificial way an overmodded bot’s smile shone. Perceptor’s smile was genuine. 

And Dead End loved it.

The next thing he felt was the explosion. It rippled through the lab, blowing out one of the structure’s already-unsteady walls. Dead End tackled Perceptor to the ground, shielding him from the shock wave as it tore through the building.

He felt Astrotrain’s hand on his frame, pulling him up and away from Perceptor. Dead End kicked at the shuttleformer, stopping only when he saw Astrotrain had used his other hand to grab Perceptor. Astrotrain transformed, and Dead End tumbled into the cockpit unceremoniously.

Perceptor fell on top of him.

The shuttle’s plating began to vibrate—he had felt this only once before, when Astrotrain had taken them out of his native universe. Dead End tried to demand what he was doing, where _they_ were going.

He heard the slight _pop,_ indicating the multiverse drive had done its work.

And then they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awoo...we are almost at the end!


	14. Chapter 14

“What was _that?”_ Dead End demanded.

Wherever they were—it was a mess.

It reminded Dead End of Velocitron; endless roads curling around the planet itself, with any buildings tucked neatly under overpasses and pit stops. Except they weren’t _roads,_ he realized.

They were train tracks.

“Hey!”

Astrotrain ignored him.

“You okay?” Dead End asked, grabbing Perceptor’s hand to haul him up.

“Functional.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring.” Dead End gave the Autobot a once-over, stopping when he noticed the thick crack in the lens of Perceptor’s scope. “Your—”

“I will attend to it after we have dealt with this.”

“Uh- _huh.”_

Dead End forced himself to focus on Astrotrain. The shuttleformer’s expression was chillingly vacant.

_“Hey!”_

Dead End kicked Astrotrain’s foot. He didn’t react.

“I believe he is in shock,” Perceptor said. “I have seen this before.”

“Wh—when?”

Perceptor looked at him.

Dead End looked away, unsure whether _shame_ was an appropriate emotional reaction. Probably not.

“It was Megatron X who caused the explosion,” Perceptor said. “Isn’t that right?”

Mutely, Astrotrain nodded.

“And you are—rightly—afraid of him.”

Another nod.

“How’s that going to help us?” Dead End asked. “How is _any_ of this going to help us?”

“We need Astrotrain to get us back to our universe,” Perceptor said. “Which reminds me—how _did_ Megatron X find us?”

“How should I know?”

“You shouldn’t. Hold still.” Perceptor took hold of Dead End’s chin.

“Wh—“

Perceptor hesitated. “Please? Is that better?”

Dead End grimaced. “A little.”

He resisted the urge to pull away as Perceptor’s scope clicked online and hot blue light hit his optics.

“Those are _sensitive.”_

“Sorry.” The scope clicked off, but Perceptor didn’t let go of him. “There is likely a latent tracking device in the cerebroshell.”

“It’s inactive.” Dead End felt his throat closing up. “Wheeljack _told me—”_

“I’m not _sure,”_ Perceptor said. “I cannot be sure without an in-depth scan calibrated to the alternate universe’s level of technology.”

“He had a reason,” Astrotrain mumbled. “For doing it to you.”

“What?”

Perceptor spoke for both of them.

“I didn’t—” Astrotrain cleared his throat. “I didn’t _know_ what Bombshell did to you. But if I had—I would have let him.”

He held up a hand, silencing Dead End and Perceptor’s shouts.

“You don’t know what it was like,” he said. “Maybe you do—maybe they _told_ you, Dead End—but either way: I would have done the same, if only for a head start to escape him.”

“You would sell out an entire universe just to more easily _run_ from Megatron?”

“In a sparkbeat.” Astrotrain blinked,and his optics seemed to focus on Perceptor.

“Regardless.” Perceptor hadn’t relinquished his grip on him. Dead End was grateful. “I need you to get us back to our universe. Whether or not you stay is irrelevant.”

“I need a minute.”

“I understand.” Perceptor’s voice was even. Calm.“Take as long as you need.”

“Not too— _ow._ ” Perceptor elbowed him and sat down. Dead End followed suit.

“How long are we gonna give him?”Dead End muttered. “And what can _we_ do that Optimus and Megatron _can’t.”_

“As long as he needs.” Perceptor said. “And honestly—I don’t know. But I do know we cannot stay _here.”_

“Whatever you say.” Dead End drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on his forearms. “What are the chances of both of us getting out of this alive?”

“Acceptable.” Carefully, Perceptor leaned against his side. Dead End let him. “Higher than our chances against the Quintessons.”

“Huh.”

“Dead End?” Perceptor asked, after sitting in silence for a moment.

“Yeah?”

“I…Ratchet has been monitoring the condition of my optics. I was wondering…”

Dead End looked up. Perceptor looked…oddly hesitant. Dead End didn’t know how to feel about that.

“The recovery will take some time.” With one hand, Perceptor traced the charred edges of his optical socket. “I do not want to pressure you but—your assistance would be appreciated. More than I can say.”

“I’m no nursebot,” Dead End said. The thought of trying to help Perceptor, of accidentally _hurting_ him in the process…“Are you _sure?”_

“I—”

“I’m ready.”

He hadn’t heard Astrotrain get up.

“You okay?” Dead End asked.

Astrotrain grit his teeth. “I will be.”

“Good.” Perceptor stood, then helped Dead End up. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Astrotrain sighed, transforming back into his shuttle mode in a single smooth motion.

“Are you ready?” Perceptor asked.

Dead End nodded. Almost on instinct—it was funny, Dead End thought, that so few instances could lead to a habit so quickly—Dead End reached for Perceptor’s hand.

* * *

They reentered Iacon and landed in the middle of a firefight.

It was strange—somehow, Dead End had expected the eerie quiet of the other Luna-1. He had expected…more _bodies,_ to be quite frank.

Even Astrotrain seemed reassured, if only slightly.

_“You bots sure know how to put up a fight.”_

“One of our many talents,” Perceptor replied dryly. “Set us down at the perimeter.”

“Uh,” Dead End said, gesturing to Perceptor’s cracked scope. “Can you—?”

“I will manage. I have you, don’t I?”

_“Uh.”_

Together, they leaped from the shuttle. Dead End’s targeting sensors tracked Astrotrain to the opposite edge of the battlefield before vanishing in a haze of static.

“He’s out of range.” Dead End reached into his sunspace and pulled out a grenade.

“Follow me.”

“Wait, Perc—”

He was gone. Dead End watched Perceptor rush into the fray of bots.

Dead End groaned and ran after him.

He shoved the grenade back into the subspace and pulled out his rifle. It wasn’t meant for close combat, but Dead End had never been particularly proficient at using it anyway. He was far better at simply…barreling through.

“Perceptor!” Dead End frantically scanned the area, only to see Perceptor clambering up _yet another_ ladder. “What are you doing?”

“Come on!”

As always, Dead End followed.

“I need you to help me.”

_“With?”_

“Where is he?” Perceptor asked. “Megatron?”

Dead End looked down. He expected to see Optimus and the two Megatron’s battling it out in the middle of the warzone—and he wasn’t wrong. He shuddered. Megatron X was far taller than most—more than half Astrotrain’s height, he towered over Autobots and Decepticons alike.

“I see him.”

“Good.” Perceptor pulled a beautifully-modded sniper rifle from his subspace. Dead End gawked. “I will need your help. Dead End.”

“Huh?” Dead End pulled his attention away from the rifle. “Help?”

“We will do this together.” Perceptor said. “I believe all _our_ Megatron—and Optimus—would need is a moment of weakness of Megatron X’s part.”

“Right.” Dead End swallowed. “What am I doing?”

Perceptor activated his optical interface port.

* * *

“What am I looking for?”

“I will know when I see it.”

Dead End was very, _very_ aware that this was the closest he had ever been to Perceptor. He could feel the Autobot’s ventilations on the back of his neck, felt Perceptor shifting his weight on his back.

“You know, I _could_ do this myself. I’ve never shot one of these things before, but the principle of it _is_ universal.”

“I’ve seen you shoot.”

Dead End frowned.

“Sorry,” Perceptor said, after a moment.

Dead End snorted. “Never thought I’d let an Autobot insult me in the middle of a battlefield.”

“Indeed.” He felt Perceptor stiffen incrementally. “We wil only get one chance at this.”

“I know.” Dead End adjusted his position and looked into the rifle’s scope. Tell me when.”

He stared blankly at the trio—their universe’s Megatron had been tossed aside, and Megatron X and Optimus were engaged in some kind of Matrix-induced laser battle. “Where am I aiming for, anyway?”

“The optics. Pay attention,” Perceptor said, when Dead End tried to look up at Perceptor in horrified amazement. He felt his engine kick up a notch and noted his frame temperature had increased by five degrees. _“_ Dead End?”

“Now is _not_ the time.” 

“Sorry.” Of _course._ Stupid speedster frame, Dead End thought despairingly—he _loved_ it, but if he’d been in his original frame, the temperature change would’ve been unnoticeable. He settled back down and focused on the space between Megatron X’s optics.

“There.”

“You actually trust me to take the shot?” Dead End asked.

“I was going to say we would do it together.”

“Oh. _Oh._ Wow. _”_ Despite the situation, he felt stupidly giddy. He wondered if it was the pain medication, and decided just as quickly that he didn’t care. “Okay.”

Dead End felt Perceptor guide his hand to the trigger. He had to resist the urge to look down at the rifle itself—but that would be _stupid,_ he was here so Perceptor could see his target.

The shot was silent—Dead End hadn’t expected _that,_ but he supposed it made sense for a sniper to _not_ give their position away with a single shot. Megatron X stumbled back. Dead End watched as Optimus took the opportunity to press forward as something— _something—_ emerged from the Decepticon’s chest, slicing his Matrix in half.

Dead End’s firewalls flared back up as Perceptor terminated the connection. He remained where he lay, one hand keeping the rifle steady, one hand on the trigger.

“We did it.” Perceptor’s voice was quiet. Hesitant.

He had said that before. Internally, Dead End cringed. He couldn't mess this up. He _couldn't._

Dead End let go of the rifle. Perceptor didn’t remove his hand. 

“I’m not leaving this time. Not just—” Even though he could not see it, Dead End forced a small smile for Perceptor’s sake. “Because you’re laying on top of me so I _can’t_ leave.”

“Hm. Good. Do I need to stay like this?”

“Is that an option?”

“Unfortunately not.” Perceptor slid off Dead End’s back. Dead End rolled over to watch as Perceptor disassembled the rifle with smooth, practiced motions. “Although I am certain the others are capable of finishing off the drones, which will give us an extra moment or two alone.”

“Figures.” Dead End watched Perceptor set the disassembled rifle back in his subspace. He reached out to grasp Perceptor’s chin, a mirror of what Perceptor had done to him not an hour previous. Perceptor made a vague noise of agreement and settled against Dead End’s frame.

Dead End paused, feeling their ventilations mix in the smoky air. He raised his other hand, stroking the thick cables in the Autobot’s throat.

Perceptor shuddered, and gave in first, closing the distance between them. He tasted like smoke and generic, barely-filtered energon.

Dead End smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter! 
> 
> I'll admit, this definitely wasn't my favorite and I *definitely* rushed through it :P but I've already started the next chapter, and I'm thoroughly enjoying writing it so far!
> 
> if y'all are interested--chapter 16 will be a 'deleted scenes' of sorts, mostly cut/reworked stuff from this fic itself, including a whole thing of Dead End meeting the X universe stunticons. so the fic will officially end at 15, and it'll be updated again right after. 
> 
> After *that*, I'll try and finish the other prompts I have left, and then I'll be taking a short break from Cyberverse stuff for Prowl week over on tumblr. And then! I'm gonna start on the sequel oneshots.


	15. Chapter 15

“Aw. You’re gonna miss him, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“You will!” Clobber took a long drink of energon before reaching out a tentative hand to prod at Dead End’s frame, withdrawing only when he hissed, irritated not so much from pain as the sudden intrusion into his personal space. “Did he give you his comm frequency?”

“I already had it.” Dead End activated his comlink to show Clobber the three dozen messages he’d received since Astrotrain’s departure.

“Oh. Wish I’d gotten his frequency,” Clobber said. “He seemed nice. Sort of.”

Dead End snorted. In the dim light, Clobber’s sole optic was uncomfortably bright. He decreased the input coming from his optics and wondered if the overhead lights had been dimmed specifically for him and his headache.

Perceptor had pulled a stunning amount of strings to get Dead End seen as soon as the last bots had been triaged and sent to the CR chamber, stating smoothly and confidently that the Insecticons were still at large, even if their sole motivation for hijacking bots was gone. Meanwhile, Dead End had just stood at Perceptor’s side and nodded whenever he thought it might be appropriate.

He had awoken in the hospital with a massive headache, taken one look at Perceptor sitting at his bedside, and promptly passed out again.

The next time he stirred, he was in a habsuite—he had no memory of it, but at some point, he had been cognizant enough to be discharged, then walk from the hospital to the apartment block—sprawled out on the recharge slab with Perceptor fast asleep beside him.

The next day or so was a blur of sleeping off the headache and brief bouts of consciousness while he sat up and nursed a cube of medical-grade energon. He hadn't said more than a sentence or two to Perceptor in the interim; the Autobot seemed as content to sleep as he was, which was a pleasant surprise. Dead End had imagined him to be one of those bots who made it their subconscious life’s work to make mornings a miserable experience for everyone else.

Dead End looked over his shoulder to glance at Perceptor, then took in the rest of the bar. Most of the Autobots were still being repaired, and any Decepticons who might have ventured over to this side of the planet were busy salvaging what they could from New Croaton. Few currently had the free time or inclination to visit Maccadam’s.

Maccadam’s itself had suffered minimal damage, but Perceptor had offhandedly mentioned wanting to repair the damage from the Quintessons after his optical replacement surgery was scheduled. 

Which was fine—Perceptor hadn’t brought it up, but Dead End _had_ noticed the crack in his scope lens was still resisting repair. For the apparently tenth time, Perceptor had rescheduled the procedure accordingly, and in the meantime, Dead End had become accustomed to letting himself into Perceptor’s apartment because the bot had become so engrossed in the sniper mods he was designing that he hadn’t heard the doorbell chime. More than once, Dead End had fallen asleep in Perceptor’s habsuite, waking a few hours later to see Perceptor asleep at his desk.

He wondered if Perceptor getting his optics back would change things between them. He _hoped_ not, but it would—it _had to._ Dead End tried to quash the uncomfortable notion that once his optics were repaired, Perceptor’s attention would be caught by someone far more suited to a science-class-slash-sniper bot like him.

Or worse: Perceptor would see him as he truly was: a stubborn, cowardly _idiot._ Brief ‘heroics’ with Astrotrain aside (which, only Perceptor and Optimus had been around for—and it certainly wasn’t enough to keep Dead End from slowly slipping into the role of post-war Cybertron’s first pariah), Dead End was still…Dead End. He hadn’t even switched _factions._

Not that he wanted to—Dead End had no desire to join the ranks of the optimistic, happy-go-lucky bots who made up the Autobot forces. _Clobber_ fit in with them. Dead End certainly didn’t.

He hoped Perceptor didn’t mind.

“Anyway…” Clobber’s voice dragged him back into the conversation. “Grimlock’s planning a party right before Maccadam’s closes for renovations. Did you know?”

“I _work_ here. Of course I know.” To him, it made more sense for the ‘soiree’ to be scheduled _after_ the bar reopened, but Perceptor had insisted otherwise. Apparently Grimlock’s parties had a tendency to ‘get out of hand’.

“…right.” Clobber coughed. “So. You got any plans?”

“Not really,” Dead End admitted. “I’m just glad to have survived the last few astrocycles.”

“Me too.” Clobber looked away. “Dead End?”

“Yeah?”

“You think he’s gonna come back?” Clobber looked _nervous._ He didn’t know she _could_ be nervous _._ “Megatron?”

 _“Astrotrain’ll_ be back,” Dead End said. “He’s too stupid to stay away. Once he gets bored tormenting Megatron, he’ll probably stash him in unspace and come back to make our lives miserable.”

“Hopefully. I like him.” Clobber frowned. “I _don’t_ like Megatron X.”

“You’ve never talked to him, have you?” Dead End said. “Astrotrain.”

“No,” Clobber said. “Why?” 

“You’ll see.” Dead End finished his glass and set it down. “You coming to Grimlock’s party?”

“I wasn’t gonna,” Clobber said. “Hot Rod wanted my help. He said he’s gonna surprise Soundwave with something.”

“Great.” Dead End muttered. “Give me a warning before they singlehandedly restart the war over a _prank.”_

“…oh. You think that’s gonna happen?”

“No,” Dead End admitted. _“Probably_ not.”

He held out a hand, and Clobber slid over her empty glass. “More drinks?”

“Of course!” Clobber patted her chest. “It’s why I’m here. Besides, er, catching up with you, I guess.”

“Thanks, Clobber.”

He waved off her “you’re welcome!” as he walked back to the bar. Perceptor didn’t look up, but his scope swiveled around to watch him approach, and Dead End noted that the crack in the lens was now letting light leak through.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

They hadn’t talked about this yet—expressing affection in public, besides the long glances and instances where their plating touched longer than was absolutely necessary. He hadn’t figured Perceptor to be the type to demand affection, and Dead End certainly wasn’t the kind of bot who wanted everyone on the planet to know who he intended to cross cables with one day. 

So they were taking it slow, Dead End reasoned. And he was more than fine with that.

That was a thing he did now, Dead End supposed—or a thing he was going to have to start doing. _Talk._ Even if it made him want to turn tail and run half the time.

It was instances like this that made him hate Bombshell with every molecule of his being. _Before,_ if there had ever been a bot he cared enough to try, he probably would have just offered up a cable and let Perceptor _see_ what he was thinking, because thinking was so much easier than _talking._ But now, the mere notion of someone having access to his thoughts, his _feelings…_

In hindsight, he was surprised Perceptor’s temporary use of his optics had gone over without issue, though that _had_ been in the middle of a firefight and it _had_ been paired with Perceptor on top of him, keeping him anchored with nothing more than a hand on his own; a memory that, even now, had his core temperature rising a degree. 

It _would_ be just like him to discover a new kink at the most inconvenient time possible. And Perceptor had _noticed,_ which would have been mortifying enough, except he had just…accepted it.

Dead End didn’t know what to think of that. 

_Anyway._ Perceptor was staring at him. Waiting for him to respond.

Right. Because talking was a thing he did now.

Dead End tried again.

“Hi.”

“Hello.” Perceptor was fighting back a smile. He was _enjoying_ this, Dead End realized. He held out the tray.

“Clobber, uh, wanted more energon.” Dead End snuck a glance over his shoulder. Clobber was waving. Perceptor waved back, then took the tray from Dead End. “You sure you don’t need help?”

“You are supposed to be resting,” Perceptor said. “Drinking with Clobber barely qualifies, and working at Maccadam’s certainly does not.”

“I feel fine,” Dead End said, which was the truth. Mostly. “Astrotrain’s off tormenting Megatron instead of me. My headache’s mostly gone. And…”

Perceptor waited.

“You’re around. I guess.” Dead End finished lamely, but Perceptor smiled.

“How flattering.” Perceptor set the refilled glasses on the counter. “Dead End. What you said to Astrotrain—”

“Telling him he didn’t _need_ to take Megatron X?” Dead End said. “The bolthead doesn’t know when to quit. He brought it on himself.”

“But you meant it.”

Dead End sighed. “Yeah.”

Perceptor laid a hand on Dead End’s arm. “He is lucky to have you as a friend.”

Dead End scoffed but didn’t pull away. He looked at Perceptor, drinking in the sharp angles where his neck met his shoulder, the softer curve of the dials on his arms and scope.

“There is something I wanted to ask you,” Perceptor said, after a moment.

“Huh?” Dead End tore his eyes away from Perceptor’s frame. “What?”

“Maccadam signed the bar over to me,” Perceptor said. “But hinted that at some point, I might want to add a co-owner.”

“Huh.” Dead End thought about it. And then he _thought_ about it. “Wait, me? _Me?_ ”

“If you are willing.” Perceptor said. “I plan to resign again from the Autobot science division, of course, so we could—”

“You’d quit?” Dead End interjected. “But you’re _good_ at science.”

Dead End wished he could be more specific about the type of ‘science’ Perceptor specialized in. Perceptor had explained it, and Dead End had been so awed that the bot who normally spoke in shorter sentences than _he did_ could string so many words together at once.

It had been fascinating to hear, but Dead End couldn’t remember a thing Perceptor said.

“Thank you,” Perceptor said. “That may be, but I would like to focus on running the bar.”

“Do you want to quit?”

Perceptor hesitated, long enough that before he spoke, Dead End had an answer. “Not entirely.”

“Then don’t.” He wasn’t one for spontaneity—if Perceptor decided to argue with him, Dead End was well aware he wasn’t enough of a quick thinker to refute the bot’s arguments. “You could do both—I could work here whenever you want to go to the lab, or we could work out a schedule or something. Or—”

“You would do that?” It was Perceptor’s turn to interject.

“I saw you working,” Dead End said. “You love it.”

“I do,” Perceptor said. “Well, if you are truly willing…I can speak to Wheeljack.”

“I am.”

That had been…easy. Dead End was _nearly_ suspicious

Perceptor smiled, and the room brightened visibly.

“We are closing in an hour,” Perceptor said. “And after that happens, I _will_ kiss you. Thoroughly.”

Dead End smiled.

“I’ll be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys!! It's over! I'm really sad to say goodbye to my little concussion/quarantine fic. 
> 
> Parts of this were absolutely painful and boring to write, but overall, I had a great time with this fic. I do have a couple sequels (and a soundrod slowburn) being outlined/written, so if you're interested in those, feel free to subscribe to either of the series' this fic is a part of. I can't state enough how much your comments helped--this fic definitely would have died around chapter 7 if people didn't comment :`)
> 
> As always, come find me over at [soundwavereporting](http://soundwavereporting.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you'd like to chat! I'm trying to be more active on [twitter](https://twitter.com/hello_shepard), too.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A compilation of bits and pieces (and an entire chapter) of things that got cut from the final draft of this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for -   
> panic attack similar to the ones in earlier chapters  
> the stunticons being uncomfortably touchy

_**Cut from chapter 5** (after the CAH game has been completed)_

“What are you thinking about?”

Dead End looked out the window. The rain had let up throughout the day, but was still a steady, acidic downpour. But Maccadam promised them the rain would be gone by the morning.

And then they would leave.

“The end,” Dead End said.

“Deactivation?”

“No.” Dead End shifted in his seat—Perceptor’s scope was inactive, he couldn’t see how uncomfortable Dead End was getting—how uncomfortable he was, ever since he had given in and rested his arm on the Autobot’s shoulders, ever since he had held hands with an Autobot under the table while playing a game of Chips Against Cybertron.

Their game ended a few hours ago—Clobber was sleeping, Whirl had commandeered the back room for one of his watchmaking projects, Maccadam was nowhere to be seen, and Hot Rod and Soundwave had gone back down to the ‘training sim’. The less Dead End thought about that, the better.

Which left him and Perceptor, still sitting in the booth. Dead End had let go of Perceptor’s hand when the game ended, but Perceptor was still leaning against him.

“The end of this, then.” With his free hand, Perceptor gestured to the nearly-empty bar. “You believe that once the others are awakened, we will go back to our war.”

“I’ve seen enough of the war to know that peace won’t come as easily as you all seem to think.” Dead End inclined his head in the direction of the back room. “Why do you think we never tried to wake up Megatron?”

“You want to leave him in the Loop?”

“I never said that,” Dead End said. “You said that. But it’s not a bad idea.”

“I would think Soundwave might have a problem with it.”

“Soundwave’s busy swapping paint with Optimus Prime junior.” Dead End looked back at Perceptor. “He wants about as much to do with Megatron as I do.”

“Hm.” Dead End suddenly became very, very aware that Perceptor was tracing one of the seams on his knee. It wasn’t that he minded.

He didn’t. It was just…weird.

“Is _that_ what they’re doing.”

* * *

**(The OG chapter seven—dead end meets the stunticons)**

Blaring alarms and an insistent, flashing green light yanked Dead End from recharge.

“What did you—” Dead End caught himself, abruptly changing his tone as he remembered he wasn’t snapping at Hot Rod or Whirl, but at Megatron. “What happened?”

Thankfully, Megatron was paying no attention to him—the warlord was flipping switches and pressing buttons at random.

“This Cybertron has advanced interplanetary defenses,” Megatron said. “An electromagnetic weapon designed to destroy ships before they enter orbit.”

“Got it.” Dead End squinted—they were certainly in proximity to Cybertron, but far closer to its moons than the planet itself. “I’m putting us down on Luna-1.”

“We are not here to conquer Luna- 1,” Megatron snarled. “We are here for Cybertron!”

“Landing on Luna-1 will give us time to restart the ship’s systems,” Dead End said, as patiently as he could manage. “And then we can go to Cybertron.”

Megatron scoffed.

For the first time, Dead End wondered maybe, just maybe, Soundwave hadn’t always been like that. Perhaps working in such close proximity to Megatron for millions of years had made him like that.

Dead End heard some probably-vital part of the ship snap off.

“Dead End.”

Dead End swallowed. Luna-1 loomed before them—the EM pulse had disabled everything but the manual controls. He had learned the very basics of Quint language during Perceptor's impromptu autopsy, and he thought the lever at the very end of the control panel said “landing”.

Dead End pulled the lever and privately thanked Primus when he heard the landing gears engage. It was raining—pouring, actually—and their choice of landing spots was limited to wherever the disabled Quint ship decided to set itself down.

The ship shuddered. Dead End cringed as he heard paneling crumble under the pressure of entry.

The fear settled in his tanks, cold and certain. Dead End felt his joints freeze up.

Dead End closed his eyes.

The impact of the ship landing snapped him out of his fog. Dead End let out a long, slow breath.

They were alive. He was alive.

“Dead End!”

“Wh—” Dead End activated his optics and turned to face—oh.

The rear of the ship was gone. Outside, it was raining.

“Uh.” Dead End slid out of his seat. “Luna-1 has shipyards.”

“On our Cybertron,” Megatron snarled. “On this…primitive one? Doubtful.”

“Sorry.” Dead End said, and wondered if Megatron could pick up his lack of remorse. Dead End peered out the viewpane. Their Luna-1 had shipyards, but this one, covered in massive alien plants, did not.

“Get the multiverse drive,” Megatron snapped. “Now.”

Relieved, Dead End ducked under the ship’s dashboard. The multiverse drive was undamaged, at least—it was warm to the touch and humming faintly, but appeared otherwise functional. He disengaged the multiverse drive and pulled the components out. Automatically, it compacted into a portable cube, which fit comfortably into his hand. Dead End tucked it into his subspace.

When he looked up, Megatron was gone. Dead End could hear the warlord’s footsteps just outside. Dead End pulled his weapon out of subspace and followed suit.

He had heard Megatron, but he certainly had not heard the four other mechs—and three beastformers, just outside of easy blasting range—approach, much less raise their weapons and point them directly at Megatron.

Dead End froze. He had raised his weapon instinctively, and was met with four rifles aimed at his helm, and seven pairs of optics trained on him.

They were Decepticons—or they had been. Dead End could see what little remained of their sigils. They were familiar in that way most mechs were, if you survived long enough, but Dead End didn’t have the vaguest idea of their designations.

“As I was saying—” Megatron’s hands were spread. He looked placating, the very picture of an exhausted, careworn mech. “We have come seeking refuge from our universe, where the Autobots—”

“Dead End?”

Before Dead End could react, he was tackled to the ground. He let out a pained grunt as two of the mechs—a black and red one, and a yellow one—held him down and—

Petted him?

“Get off,” Dead End struggled uselessly against the mechs. “Who are you?”

“He doesn’t remember us?” One of the Decepticons who stayed back—blue and white, with large, imploring yellow optics—was speaking to the biggest of the group. “What happened to him?”

“You seem to be acquainted with Dead End,” Megatron said. “It stands to reason that you know me as well.”

“About that.”

Dead End sucked in a breath as the two mechs leapt off him and pulled their rifles out again, pointing them directly at Megatron’s helm. He struggled to his feet, raising his weapon at the yellow one.

“We never found his body,” the leader was saying. “He could’ve—”

“We felt him die,” the black one snapped. “Megatron rebuilt him to take us out.”

“We’re already losing,” the blue one said. He had stopped staring at the leader, and was now gawking at Dead End. “He didn’t need to do this.”

“Do what.”

In unison, the Decepticons, Megatron, and the beastformers turned to stare at Dead End.

“As I was saying,” Megatron said, speaking as though none of that had actually happened. “We are transients from a different universe, one infested with both Autobots and Quintessons. We come seeking asylum, and—if this place has it—a way to defeat our foes.”

The blue one tugged at the leader’s arm. “We could—if he—”

“Shut up.” Dead End watched as the Decepticon shrugged off his minion’s hand and stepped forward. “Prove it.”

Megatron elbowed Dead End in the chest.

“Oh.” Dead End fumbled in his subspace for the multiverse drive. He held it out, shrinking back only when Megatron stepped in front of him.

“Is that proof enough?”

“I suppose.” The Decepticon stared at Megatron with narrowed, suspicious optics. “Now. Where did you get him?”

“Me?”

“Dead End is with me,” Megatron said. “And you four—seven—are?”

“We were—are—the Stunticons,” the leader said. “And those are the Insecticons.”

He gestured with one hand to the beastformers, who insistently lingered in the background, chittering nonsense.

“Stunticons, eh?” Megatron’s engine rumbled, low and deep in his chest. “What is your function? A strike force, perhaps?”

“You do not know?” The leader—the lead ‘Stunticon’, Dead End supposed, asked. “You were the one who was responsible for our creation, after all.”

“There are no Stunticons in my universe,” Megatron said. “Nor are there beastformers in such abundant numbers.”

“In that case, I am Motormaster.” The lead Stunticon stood proud, despite the grim and muck that covered his frame. “And this is Drag Strip, Wildrider, and Breakdown. You already know Dead End. The cowards behind us are Kickback, Shrapnel, and Bombshell.”

“Dead End is one of you?”

“I am not.”

“Quiet.”

“Our universe’s Dead End was killed five million astrocycles ago,” Motormaster said. “By Megatron.”

Dead End crammed the multiverse drive back into his subspace and took an instinctive step away from Megatron, which had the unfortunate effect of taking him one step closer to the Stunticons, who beamed.

Megatron snorted. “Why would I do something like that?”

One of the beastformers crawled towards Megatron. It transformed smoothly, revealing a short, stout mech with a red visor and shining fangs.

“Why don’t you two come with us? I’m sure the Stunticons would like to get reacquainted with Dead End. And It would not do to remain in the open, in case they decide to focus on this quadrant.”

“An agreeable alternative,” Megatron rumbled. “But I fear our ship appears beyond saving.”

“No matter,” the beastformer said. “We will take care of it.”

“We have a deep-space capable shuttle,” Motormaster said. “Your ‘ship’—” Dead End could practically hear the mech’s quotations. “Is attracting more attention than is safe.”

“As you wish.” Megatron inclined his head respectfully. “We will follow your lead.”

“Good.” Without further ado, Motormaster turned his back to them and began walking.

Wordlessly, Dead End moved to follow Megatron, who was following Motormaster, but was quickly pulled back by the other three Stunticons.

“Primus we missed you—”

“How did you survive?”

It was a futile endeavor, but Dead End tried to pull away from the group. They were filthy, but moreover were uncomfortably touchy, overtly familiar with him, as though they had known him for eons. They paid no mind to his protests, and in no time, his plating was as grimy as theirs.

“You still like copper in your energon?”

“What?” Dead End said. “Uh, yeah, but—”

“And you still prefer Dropkick’s blend of Cerulean wax?”

“How did you know that.” No one knew that—not his fellow officers, not the ragtag bunch of mechs at Maccadam’s. Not even—

Dead End’s spark ached. He let himself be pulled along by plaintive, prying hands, by mechs who were speaking too quickly for him to get a word in.

“I have some!” The blue one exclaimed. “I, uh, took it from your subspace before the battle of Vos.”

“Uh—” Trying to be casual, Dead End shoved away whoever’s hands had been locked around his waist. “Okay.”

His plating was crawling by the time they arrived at the camp—if it could be called that. The shuttle Motormaster had promised was there—covered in branches and barely-functional attention deflectors. A makeshift energon dispenser was set up at the edge of the clearing, and Dead End saw piles of weapons and ammunition out of the corner of his optic.

“C’mere.”

Dead End was guided to a dilapidated storage container that had been repurposed as a communal habsuite. He sat on the edge of the communal recharge slab, watching warily as the Stunticons flittered about, grabbing cubes of energon and stowing away their weapons. They were waiting for something—that much was clear.

He didn’t have to wait long. Motormaster appeared at the entrance, and the Stunticons snapped to attention. Belatedly, unsure if he was supposed to follow suit, Dead End stood.

“Come.”

Dead End walked towards Motormaster.

Whatever he had expected, it certainly wasn’t to be sat down in the mech’s lap. The other Stunticons piled in around him. Dead End kept his armor tight against his frame—the press of these strange, unfamiliar bodies who clearly knew each other but not him, was making his plating itch.

He tried to get up, to shove away the yellow mech who insisted on sitting on his lap. But his protests were summarily ignored, and before long, Dead End was in the middle of a pile of mechs who insisted on cuddling with him.

“They have missed this,” Motormaster said. “Let them have this moment.”

“What this?” Dead End snapped. “I don’t know any of you. Get off me.”

The yellow one turned to straddle Dead End, examining his finials with gentle, curious hands. “We are the Stunticons.”

“I got that,” Dead End muttered.

Motormaster sighed. Dead End felt his plating vibrate.

“We are a combiner unit,” Motormaster said. “Created by Shockwave to take back our planet from Megatron.”

“You lost me.”

“It is a long story,” Motormaster said. “It would be far easier to show you.”

“P-lease?” The yellow one bumped his visor against Dead End’s forehead. Dead End frowned. “It’s been too long without him. And now he’s here.”

“Hrm.” Dead End couldn’t see him, but he could feel Motormaster’s optics on the back of his neck. “Well?”

“I’m not interfacing with you,” Dead End said. “I don’t even know your names.”

“Wildrider!”

“Drag Strip.”

“Breakdown.” The mech frowned. “Didn’t we introduce ourselves already?”

“Now you know us,” Motormaster said. “If you will not exchange data with them, consider doing so with me. It will save you considerable time in getting yourself up to speed.”

“Ugh.” Dead End summoned a burst of strength and shoved Wildrider off. He stood, ignoring the other Stunticon’s protests, and kicked away the mech’s imploring hand. “Primus. You’re not infected with viruses, are you?”

Motormaster’s smile was thin, but genuine. “I am not.”

“Fine.” Dead End reclaimed his seat at the edge of the recharge slab. “One-way only.”

“As you wish.” Motormaster sat beside him. He activated his manual interface port and held it out to Dead End. Uncomfortably aware of the three other sets of optics on him, Dead End accepted the cable and slotted it into his own port.

It was far, far, more comfortable than stepping back into the Loop. Idly, well aware of where he was and who was here with him, Dead End watched through Motormaster’s optics as Shockwave (and someone behind him—Wheeljack?) stood above him—above them, he supposed, seeing four other frames beside his own. The words had long been lost to time and memory creep, but the implication was there.

Dead End knew, because Motormaster knew.

And then there was the briefest rush of heat, of fingers tracing transformation seams—which Motormaster politely shoved away.

Dead End was grateful for that.

He accepted a proffered data packet, examining it with a curious eye. It was the combiner code, condensed into a single download. Be him, Motormaster seemed to say. Let us be us again.

Dead End set the packet aside.

He felt the exhilarating rush of transformation times five, being safe and protected—invincible, as long as you stay together. stay combined.

The thrill of a victory. Then another. Dozens of battles fought and won, because you are safe with us and we cannot lose, we WILL NOT lose, the only other alternative is deactivation and there is no allspark to return to. There is only you and me and us and HIM and we are as much a part of you as you are of yourself and we know as much of you as you want us to and we could never take anything from you [us] that you would not give willingly and—

Dead End saw Megatron, painted void-black with purple highlights. Once, Motormaster had seen him as a savior. A way out of the mines, out of the gladiatorial pits, a way to recharge with your tanks full, next to the mecha you loved, a world without prying optics and cruel hands—

Now, he was a monster.

Motormaster couldn’t fully conceal the fear that curled around his spark chamber, at the thought of Megatron, cold and cruel and—holding…

He—he, himself, Dead End realized—broke the rule. Broke the trust because if you are not together you are not invincible, if you are not combined you will die

Through Motormaster’s optics, Dead End watched himself scream, felt himself pull away—he was an arm, Dead End realized, one part of many (till all are one, he thought, a half-remembered lesson from the eight steps)—and transform.

Together, they watched him stumble to the ground, reaching out a desperate, pleading arm towards Megatron, standing proud and tall. One hand extended out towards him, the other, locked around a—

Dead End yanked the interface cord out. He pitched forward, willing the energon to stay in its tanks where it belonged.

“Do you understand?” Motormaster asked. His voice was quiet. Gentle, almost. Dead End hadn’t heard gentle since—“Do you understand what happened to him? The other Dead End?”

“Yes.” Dead End lied, sucking in a ragged breath. “I understand.”

The data packet pinged insistently.

“I don’t know the circumstances that brought you here,” Motormaster said. His voice was barely above a whisper. “And to be entirely frank, I do not care.”

“I…” Dead End looked away—looked anywhere but at Motormaster. “I understand, I think.”

The Stunticon barked something unintelligible. Wildrider, Drag Strip, and Breakdown each gave Dead End one long, lingering look, before filing out of the habsuite.

“You do not know us, but we know you,” Motormaster said. “And when you are ready, we will be waiting.”

And then he was gone.

Dead End watched him leave. He thought about the comforting closeness of Motormaster’s memories, the rush of freedom, the safety.

He thought about Megatron. He thought about Cybertron—his Cybertron, broken and lifeless.

And for the first time that day, he thought about Perceptor.

Dead End opened the data packet.

The t-cog reformat was painless.

His original alt mode had not been lost, Dead End knew—but it was now secondary. Idly, Dead End wondered if he could consider himself a triple changer.

The Stunticons shared the same smirk.

“Okay.” Dead End said. “Show me what to do.”

“You don’t need to do anything,” Motormaster said. “Your frame will know what to do” 

“My frame—?”

Without further warning, Motormaster transformed. It was fluid, smooth. Magnetic. Dead End was dragged towards the Stunticon, felt his t-cog start up as his body twisted itself into a new and unfamiliar shape and—

The pressure was immense, pounding insistently against his head—but he didn’t have a head, Dead End realized, because he was an arm. He—they—reached out but he pulled away, flinching back from the tumult of emotion, of wantneedMISSEDYOUSOMUCH

Wildrider hated the sound of Soundwave’s voice. Breakdown loved the way Drag Strip laughed. And Drag Strip loved the way he laughed but he’d never be brave enough to do more than look, so Wildrider touched and prodded and begged for him and Motormaster was tired, so, so tired, of holding them back and keeping them together. Menasor—THEY—saw in a spectrum of colors Dead End had no name for, colors even his modded optics could not understand.

Menasor—he, it, they—bellowed.

MISSED YOU, it thought at him, and Dead End wondered how someone so large could speak so softly. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, DEAD-END.

Dead End didn’t answer—how could he? He had no mouth because he didn’t have a head, because he was an arm—

ASLEEP, it decided. RUNNING. RUNNING?

Dead End remembered the way Perceptor’s hand felt. Remembered the way Perceptor had touched his knee. Fear shot through his frame as Dead End tried to suffocate the memory, the sensation of a hand on his own, of—

>NOT HIM.

>NOT HIM?

>DEAD-END?

Dead End transformed, falling into a graceless pile of Stunticons and mud.

What little remained of the combiner—of them—lingered in the air, angry and afraid and so, so hopeful.

Motormaster hauled Dead End upright. Dead End struggled—a useless endeavor, he knew, because his feet weren’t even touching the ground.

The Stunticon dumped him into a new patch of mud.

“Get up.”

“You were the one who dropped me,” Dead End snapped, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. But he got up and looked up to meet Motormaster’s optics.

“You saw—” Motormaster pinched the bridge of his nose. “Adaptus, I didn’t think—I forgot how difficult you were.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” Motormaster hauled Dead End up. “You and your fear. Your hesitation. Your desire to protect.”

“I don’t think I’ve protected anything in my life.” Dead End lied.

Motormaster whacked him. It didn’t hurt.

“Adaptus, Dead End, we don’t care about the Autobot. We didn’t care about Dead End’s Autobot,” Motormaster said. “You are the one holding us back.”

Dead End swallowed and tried not to think about the last time he been confronted with feeling. Maybe it would be easier. After all, they weren’t Perceptor. They wouldn’t care what he felt, only that he felt enough.

“We’re going to try again,” the Stunticon said. “Are you ready?”

He wondered what Perceptor would think of all this. He could guess—Dead End would be given a flat, unseeing stare before being told exactly what needed to be done. 

He wondered if Perceptor would be proud of him for feeling.

Just as quickly, Dead End wondered if the Autobot would care.

Dead End certainly hadn’t done much to endear himself to Perceptor. Especially recently.

“I guess.”

“Good.”

Motormaster led him back to the clearing. The other Stunticons were waiting, optics wide and expectant.

“You good?” One of them asked.

Dead End shrugged.

“He will be.” Motormaster maneuvered Dead End to stand at his left side. “Right?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Dead End closed his eyes.

Breakdown hated the way Bombshell watched him. Drag Strip loved the way Dead End—the other Dead End, long gone but not forgotten—laughed. And Wildrider loved the way Motormaster laughed but he’d never be brave enough to do more than look, so Breakdown touched and prodded and begged for him and Motormaster was still tired, so, so tired, of holding them back and keeping them together. And Dead End…

Dead End missed Soundwave and Hot Rod’s stupid, impromptu dance parties, the way the diffused light complemented Perceptor’s hands as he worked on his projects, so quietly when he thought everyone was asleep, but Dead End wasn’t and sometimes they just sat there in silent acknowledgement until Dead End got too uncomfortable and—

They all hate the way Bombshell watches him, and they all loved Dead End—the other Dead End, long gone but not forgotten—and this Dead End, just as perfect as the one before but so afraid and uncertain, with hot streaks of [] coloring his thought processes. And [they] all love the way [they] laugh but would never be brave enough to look, so [they] touch and prod and beg, and they are all still tired, so, so tired, of holding Menasor in the limbo of Dead Until Further Notice—

Menasor—THEY—tumble together in a nameless, formless mix of color-emotion-memory-identity, seeing the world in a spectrum of colors Dead End has no name for, colors even his modded, perfect optics cannot understand.

>YOU ARE BACK 

>WITH US

>NOT LEAVING AGAIN?

Together, they think about Perceptor, about the Autobot’s crooked smile. The way his hand feels against theirs.

“No,” Dead End says—he thinks its Dead End, at least—at this point, there isn’t much to distinguish Dead End from Everyone Else, though he has no mouth with which he can speak. “I’m here.”

Menasor reaches out to touch its arm. It is There, solid and real and reassuringly red (according to the Quints, according to Perceptor’s impromptu autopsy, Red Is Good) and alive.

>GOOD

>DEAD-END.

>WELCOME BACK.

“That,” Wildrider said, “Was awesome.”

The clearing was twice as wide as it had been an hour before, and might now be more generously considered a crater—the entrance to their habsuite was now blocked by piles of uprooted trees and iron ore. Dead End lay in the midst of it all, comfortably surrounded a pile of muddy Stunticons.

“Won’t the other Megatron be able to track us?” Dead End asked. “You know, since we just made a massive hole in the moon?”

“Bombshell set up attention deflectors around the whole area,” Motormaster said. “Nothing sees us if we don’t want it to.”

“Huh.” Menasor had noticed Megatron and the Insecticons emerging from the shuttle to watch Menasor’s rampage. The group had gone back to the shuttle when Menasor split apart, but Dead End recalled perfectly the feeling of optics scrutinizing him. Judging him. Or maybe that was a vestigial fear of Breakdown’s.

“C’mon.” Motormaster staggered to his feet, and hauled Dead End up with him. “You four need energon.”

He leaned against Wildrider as they trudged to the shuttle. The Stunticon was taller than him—but only just—and slipped an arm around his shoulders, keeping him steady.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle as they entered the shuttle.

“Took you long enough,” One of the Insecticons said—Bombshell, Dead End knew, and understood just as quickly that out of all the mechs on this moon, Bombshell was the most dangerous. “We’ve developed a plan.”

The Insecticon held out a tray stacked full of cubes. Breakdown shrank back. Dead End moved to accept a cube, but Motormaster pushed his hand away. He grabbed the tray and selected a cube at random. Dead End watched as the Stunticon took a long drink, then set the cube down.

“It’s safe.”

Dead End grabbed a cube and took a drink. It was watered down, but wonderfully cool, and he finished the cube quickly. The other Stunticons seemed just as ravenous, and before long, a pile of discarded cubes lay on the tray.

“If you’ve finished indulging yourselves,” Bombshell said. “We have formulated a plan of attack.”

“Good for you.” Motormaster’s voice was cool.

Megatron cleared his throat. “As I understand, this Megatron’s power comes from his Matrix. His stolen Matrix.”

“The Matrix was the initial source of his power,” Shrapnel interjected. “But now he has Vector Sigma, the Allspark, and Quintesson technology at his disposal.”

“A significant source of his power, then.” Megatron locked optics with Dead End. “With that Matrix, we would have the power to take back our world from the Quintessons.”

Dead End felt his processor come to a abrupt halt.

Motormaster jabbed him with his elbow.

“Uh, back?” Dead End said, unintelligently. “We’re going back?”

“With our new allies, of course,” Megatron said, nodding sagely at the Insecticons. “Their knowledge of the Quintessons will prove invaluable.”

Dead End gawked. Wildrider patted his shoulder.

“What’s the plan?” Motormaster asked. 

“We will reveal our location to our Megatron,” Bombshell said. “Menasor will provide a distraction, allowing us to—”

“No.” Motormaster snapped. “He’s not ready.”

“Then figure it out,” Megatron said. “And do so quickly. We have a universe to save, after all.”

“Come on.”

Wordlessly, Dead End followed the Stunticons back outside.

Motormaster was pacing, muttering under his breath.

“What’s his deal?”

“He thinks Bombshell is out to get us,” Wildrider whispered. “And has been for a while.”

“I believe him,” Breakdown piped up. “His cerebroshells don’t work on us when we’re separated, but if he hit Menasor…”

“Shut up,” Motormaster snapped. “You’re scaring Dead End.”

“I’m not scared.” Dead End looked back at Wildrider. “What’s a cerebroshell?”

“Bombshell developed the ability to remotely control mechs,” Wildrider said. “He struggles to control multiple Cybertronians at once, but he can do it. He gets his cerebroshells and shoots them right in your optic and—”

“Wildrider.”

“…sorry.”

Motormaster kicked a rock into the crater. “Adaptus above. He is gonna get us killed.”

Dead End watched Motormaster pace. The other Stunticons dispersed, scattering around the camp. Drag Strip sat beside the shuttle and pulled out a datapad. Breakdown perched at the edge of the crater and watched Motormaster. Wildrider tapped his shoulder.

“You ever seen a demolition derby?” Wildrider asked.

“No.”

“You’re gonna like it,” the Stunticon said. “Come on. We’ll see if Astrotrain is in a good mood.”

“Astrotrain?”

But Wildrider was already walking back to the shuttle. Dead End followed him, feeling tired, overclocked circuitry grumble its protests.

Wildrider kicked the shuttle. “Astrotrain. Wake up.”

When nothing responded, Wildrider pounded his fist against the inner airlock door. “Astrotrain!”

The airlock door slid open halfway. As Wildrider struggled to slip through the opening, the door opened completely, dumping Wildrider unceremoniously on the floor.

“I hate him.”

Dead End flinched as something—someone—chuckled. It reverberated throughout the airlock, dark and humorless.

“This is Dead End,” Wildrider said, from the floor. “Be nicer to him then you are to me.”

“Alright.”

The shuttle rumbled with laughter. Wildrider staggered to his feet and shook his head.

“He hates everyone,” was the only explanation Wildrider offered. “Astro. Pull up the derby videos.”

“No.”

“Astrotrain.”

“Wildrider.”

“Ugh.” Wildrider kicked the shuttle—Astrotrain, Dead End supposed—once more before turning away. “Let’s go see if Motormaster has figured out our grand plan.”

This time, Dead End gave into the urge to sink to the ground and sit. Motormaster had carved a new mini crater into the crater’s edge, but he retracted his blade when he saw them approach.

“Tomorrow,” Motormaster said. “You aren’t going to do anything.”

“O-kay?”

“You’re gonna combine,” Motormaster said. “And let us do everything else. Just like today.”

“Yeah.” Wildrider patted Dead End’s mud-caked shoulder. “We’ll show you how it’s done. And then when it’s done, you can take over and pilot us back to Assstrotrain.”

The shuttle ejected an empty cube of energon. Presumably, it had been aimed at Wildrider, but it missed, hitting Dead End in the head.

“Ow.” 

Wildrider flung the cube back at Astrotrain. It clinked weakly against the shuttle’s armor and fell to the ground.

“Knock it off.” Motormaster snapped. “Am I clear?”

“Simple enough,” Dead End said. “I’ll just sit back and let you mechs do all the work.”

“Good.” Motormaster said. “Now we’re going to recharge—now—and by this time tomorrow, we’ll be in Dead End’s universe. Understood?”

“Sure, sure.” Wildrider helped Dead End up. “He’s got a penchant for dramatics. Don’t know where he gets it.”

“Dead End.”

Dead End turned back to face Motormaster. Wildrider hesitated, but saw the look in Motormaster’s optics and shrugged, turning away to walk back to the habsuite. 

Motormaster nodded. “Get some sleep. And…” 

Dead End waited.

“It’s good to have you back.”

Dead End dreamed of Perceptor.

He woke, sore and still exhausted, to the klaxon of alarm bells and Motormaster hauling him out of the recharge slab.

“Sigma-spawned Insecticons,” Motormaster snarled. “I’ll tear them to pieces and use their legs as TOOTHPICKS. You—”

Motormaster seized Dead End by the collar and pulled him up. Dead End activated his optics, only to see the Stunticon looming before him, optics wide with fright.

Motormaster transformed, and the Stunticons followed suit. Betrayal, hot and rancid, curled in their sparks—

Dead End loved the way Perceptor’s hand felt on his knee. Breakdown hated how long it took a vid to load on this moon. And Wildrider preferred his energon warmed, with so much nickel it tasted more like energon-laced nickel than nickel-laced energon and secretly, Drag Strip thought Motormaster’s laugh could use some work but Motormaster hated Wildrider’s jokes and Breakdown loved the way Perceptor’s hand felt on his knee and Dead End preferred his energon warmed, with so much nickel it tasted more like energon-laced nickel than nickel-laced energon and secretly, Wildrider thought Motormaster’s laugh could use some work but Motormaster hated how long it took a vid to load on this moon and in tandem, they love the way Perceptor’s hand feels on [their] knee and hate how long it takes for a vid to load on this moon and prefer [their] energon warmed, with so much nickel it tasted more like energon-laced nickel than nickel-laced energon and secretly, [they] think [their] laugh could use some work but [they] hated [their] jokes and most importantly of all, they hate, hate the Insecticons more than anything they had ever hated in their entire lives.

Why?, [they] wonder together, as though this is the Most Important thing to be thinking of right now. Why—the Insecticons have just as much to lose as [they] do.

>WHY ?

Menasor burst out from the habsuite, bellowing its rage-fear.

It had expected to see a small army of Decepticons. Not—

>TOO BIG ?

Menasor’s fear pulsed in their circuits, freezing cold and utterly foreign. Felt only once before. When…

>COMBINER ?

>LIKE. ME?

The combiner—the perfect combiner, the perfect Decepticon, the one designed to take [them] out—snarled, revealing a sword to rival Menasor’s own. In one fluid movement, it leapt forward and began to run.

> INSECTICONS

Their vision swung over to take in the Insecticons, skittering around the crater. Menasor tried to kick them, but they scattered, and the combiner tackled them to the ground.

Menasor brandished its sword.

The other combiner’s blade was, wickedly sharp, shimmering in the pouring rain. It swung gracefully, theirs, wildly.

With the others, Dead End screamed as the sword pierced Motormaster’s chest. Menasor fell back, clutching its—Motormaster’s—spark chamber but the combiner was unrelenting, following them as they staggered back. It jerked the sword out of their chest, through its arm—

>I WILL KILL.

>I WILL **—**

>DRAG-STRIP !

Menasor split apart—died, Dead End realized, or if he wasn’t dead, he would soon be.

They tumbled to the ground in a pile reminiscent of his first, disastrous attempt at combining. Dead End sat up. His optics readjusted, taking in Drag Strip’s lifeless frame, his teammates, the massive combiner looming above them.

Motormaster staggered to his feet. His chest was sparking, energon pouring down his armor in deadly streams. Wildrider and Breakdown remained where they had fallen, dazed or unconscious.

Or dead. 

“Dead End.”

Dead End looked up. Motormaster grabbed his shoulders. His hands were firm, reassuring. Real. 

“Get out of here. Go.”

Dead End blinked.

“You said I’m on the team,” Dead End snarled, shoving the Stunticon’s hands away. “You said—”

“I said I would keep you alive.” Motormaster’s voice left no room for argument. “And I am doing just that.”

“But—”

“Get back to your universe,” Motormaster snapped. “And kill those Insecticons.”

“I can take you with me.” Dead End stuttered. He saw the combiner halt its approach.

Like an avalanche, it broken down into its base components—six identical mechs, each wearing the Decepticon sigil as their face. They didn’t run—they knew, Dead End realized. They knew they had won. “I can—”

“Shut up.” Motormaster picked up Menasor’s sword—his sword?, Dead End wondered. Had it always been Menasor’s, or was it Motormaster’s, now? The Stunticon staggered under its weight. “Get back to your universe. Back to Perceptor. And kill the Insecticons.”

“I can’t—” Dead End looked frantically for the shuttle—for Astrotrain. The Decepticon’s location pinged quietly in his HUD—just past the clearing, still covered in the attention deflectors. “We can make it. If you grab Breakdown—”

Motormaster’s roar felt like Menasor’s.

He dropped the sword and scooped up Dead End, flinging him through the air as though he weighed nothing at all.

He transformed and hit the ground running, only returning to his rootmode when he felt the pull of the combiner.

Dead End turned to see Menasor, bleeding and armless, standing one last time. He saw the other Decepticons leap into action, blasters raised.

Dead End ran.

Astrotrain closed the door on him. Twice.

Stop compartmentalizing, Motormaster said. And Dead End had listened, and felt, for the first time in cycles.

It was easier, Dead End thought, to spit meaningless words at the cranky shuttle than it was to think about the screams he had just heard.

Dead End sat in the pilot’s chair—stupid that they would need a pilot’s chair, he thought, because the shuttle itself was a pilot. Acting on autopilot, he pulled the multiverse drive out of his subspace and attached it to Astrotrain’smain console, ignoring the shuttle flashing the emergency lights at him.

As an afterthought, Dead End pulled out his rifle.

He heard the Insecticons skittering onboard, heard Megatron proclaiming his victory.

And then they were gone, and Dead End thanked Adaptus that the shuttle didn’t actually need a pilot.

“Dead End. What. Happened.”

Dead End looked up.

Astrotrain was clearing orbit, and Megatron was missing an optic.

“Dead End.”

“We were attacked.”

“How did they know where you where?”

The door to the main cabin was closed. Dead End looked at the door, then at Megatron, and hoped that was enough of an answer. Quietly, Megatron snarled.

“I will avenge them,” he said. “Just as soon as I liberate our planet from the Quintessons.”

“Right.” Quintessons. Dead End leaned back in his seat. In the rush of combining and everything that had followed it…he had nearly forgotten about the Quints. “Right.”

“Activate the multiverse drive,” Megatron snapped at Astrotrain. “Get us home.”

Though Dead End would never say it aloud, he was grateful for Astrotrain’s stupid voice and stupider antics.

“Stay away from them,” Megatron had warned. “I will be back.”

“Can’t promise anything.”

“I need to shut down,” Astrotrain said. “Good luck with your vengeance.”

“Whatever.” Dead End nudged the seat with his blaster. “Enjoy your beauty sleep.”

“Shut up.”

Dead End heard the airlock hiss open. He keyed in the code to open the main cabin door and raised his weapon.

The Insecticons were waiting.

Distantly, Dead End heard himself scream. His shots bounced uselessly off the Insecticons—belatedly, he wondered what kind of shielding they were equipped with, and realized with a sinking spark that Perceptor would know, Perceptor would have been smart enough to figure it out and devise a solution to breach the shields and—

One of them tackled him to the ground. Dead End lay flat on his back, looking blankly up at the ceiling, and for the second time that day, Dead End felt truly afraid.

“He gets his cerebroshells and shoots them right in your optic,” Wildrider had said. “and—”

Bombshell loomed above him. Dead End got in one final shot before the gun was kicked out of his hand.

“Scrap.”

* * *

**_Cut from chapter 11: Dead End finds out about Perceptor and Astrotrain early_ **

“You’ve been ignoring my calls.”

Dead End supposed being startled by an irritated shuttleformer was a perfectly valid excuse to yelp and stumble back. He kicked a piece of scrap metal in Astrotrain’s direction and hoped it had knocked out at least one attention deflector.

“Been busy.”

Astrotrain emerged from the alleyway he’d been lurking in and crouched down to glare at Dead End.

“Oh. Uh.” Dead End gestured to Perceptor, and wondered if he should be getting between Astrotrain and the Autobot. “Perceptor, Astrotrain.”

“We have met,” Perceptor said. “Astrotrain’s knowledge of unspace is unparalleled by anyone in this universe.”

“You two know each other?”

“Why?” Dead End supposed he had to give Astrotrain’s self-restraint some credit—they had been speaking for two whole minutes and the shuttleformer hadn’t yet knocked him down or tripped him. “Are you jealous, dead eyes?”

“Shut up. I didn’t think you had the free drive space to think. Excuse me for being surprised.”

“I told you he’s mean to me.”

Perceptor smiled thinly. “Now that Dead End has been discharged, I’ll be free to accompany you in the field tomorrow.”

“Good.” Astrotrain stood, nudging Dead End with the tip of his foot. Dead End staggered back, but managed to catch himself. It--

Oh. Perceptor had shot out a hand to steady him. His fingers were warm against Dead End’s back, so close to his hips that it wouldn’t take much to spin him around, to bring him face to face with Perceptor…

Dead End gritted his teeth and cut off that thought process. No matter what Ratchet said, now was not the time. He shoved the knowledge that Perceptor had other places he could have been working, and chose to stay in the hospital with him to the back of his mind. There would be time to think about that later. When Astrotrain wasn’t around.

“You coming with us tomorrow?”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Too bad.”

“Why were you ignoring his calls?” Perceptor asked, when Astrotrain finally got the hint and left, leaving them free to continue their journey across the street.

“He’s a bolthead.” Dead End hadn’t dared turn his comlink back on. He had seen the messages from Astrotrain, but those numbers paled in comparison to the number of messages Perceptor had left him in the interim between falling out the window and ending up in the hospital. He didn’t need to acknowledge those messages though, did he? Perceptor was right here. Dead End could talk to him anytime he wanted.

* * *

_**Cut from chapter 12** _

Perceptor felt Dead End hesitate.

“Is something wrong?”

Dead End was silent. Perceptor sighed.

“I need you to talk to me,” Perceptor insisted. Prying an explanation out of Dead End was beginning to feel like digging a tunnel in a mountain with nothing but a datapad stylus.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Dead End said. But he didn’t let go of Perceptor’s hand. “Not tonight.”

“That’s fine.” Perceptor hoped he didn’t sound dismissive—or worse, relieved. “But you will have to clarify what ‘this’ is.”

Dead End let go of Perceptor’s hand, only to wrap his arms around himself. For the second time that day, Perceptor had to resist the urge to pull Dead End into an embrace, but he didn’t think Dead End would like that.

“Before, when you tried to access my port.” Dead End was staring at the floor. “It hurt.”

That was concerning. Perceptor was no medic, but he was certain that a bot’s medical port was designed to be one of the hardiest, pain-resistant features of the body. That it hurt could not good.

“Then we should tell Ratchet. Now.”

“Not like that. It was…” Dead End tightened his grip on himself. “Frightening.”

Of course. To Dead End’s recently-healed processor, a foreign connection would feel like someone—Bombshell—was reasserting his control over his body.

“I understand,” Perceptor said, finally. “Though you should still tell Ratchet.”

Dead End nodded. Whatever confidence he had gained over the last hour seemed to have deserted him, and he looked as though he was half a second away from running out the door.

Perceptor stepped forward and touched Dead End’s elbow. “Where’s your room?”

“First on the left.”

Perceptor guided him to the habsuite, and was greeted by a starkly bare room, decorated only by a single spark flower made of scrap metal.

“Uh, come in. I guess.”

Perceptor had to fight back a smile at the charmingly awkward invitation.

“Energon?”

“No thank you.”

Dead End gestured to the bed. Perceptor sat, watched Dead End pace, and wondered how he could properly articulate his proposition.

“There is no reason,” Perceptor finally said, as slowly as he could manage. “That I need to leave.”

Seeing Dead End’s startled expression, Perceptor held up a hand. “Just to sleep.”

Dead End seemed to deflate, but before Perceptor could regret speaking up, he spoke.

“Okay.”

This time, it was Perceptor who hesitated.

“If you don’t want to do something,” Perceptor said. “You need to tell me.”

“You told me that already.” But Dead End sat beside Perceptor and rested a hand on his knee.

“I did.” Perceptor reached out to touch Dead End’s face. “Now. Can I kiss you?”

“You don’t need to ask.”

“I do.” Perceptor closed the distance between them. Dead End tasted like stale medgrade. Perceptor didn’t care. He followed Dead End’s lead, allowing the Decepticon to pull him down onto the bed. “As long as you need me too, I will ask.”

Dead End mumbled something against Perceptor’s lips, then pulled away to lie flat on his back. Perceptor tried to roll over accordingly, but—

“Your scope,” Dead End muttered. Perceptor nodded dumbly, reaching over to detach the scope. Dead End didn’t have a nightstand, so Perceptor compromised, setting it down on the floor.

Now completely blind, but also free to move, Perceptor let Dead End take the lead. He accepted another kiss—longer than the previous ones, but not quite as deep.

Dead End wrapped his arms around Perceptor’s waist, and Perceptor settled—quite comfortably—on top of Dead End’s chest. He could hear Dead End’s steady ventilations, and beyond that…

Perceptor drifted asleep to the sound of Dead End’s spark.

It was the sound of Dead End’s spark that woke him up. His internal chronometer told him it had only been a few hours, but yesterday already seemed like a lifetime ago.

Slowly, Perceptor sat up. He was still disoriented, and fumbled blindly for his scope before realizing he had left it on the floor. He was still laying on top of Dead End, but now his sparkbeat was erratic. Frenzied.

“Dead End?” 

Dead End let out a shaky breath. “Here.”

“Is something wrong?” Perceptor rolled over and sat up. “I can leave.”

“No.” He felt Dead End sit up. “This happened before.”

Perceptor thought back to Dead End, crouched in the back room of Maccadam’s.

“Yesterday?”

Dead End made a vague noise of affirmation.

Perceptor couldn’t even begin to guess what was wrong. He had reached the upper limits of his medical knowledge early last night.

“Here.” Navigating by touch, Perceptor clambered back on top of Dead End. “Tell me—”

“If I want you to stop.” Perceptor felt Dead End’s head come to rest on his shoulder, where his scope normally rested. “I know.”

As gently as he could, Perceptor wrapped his arms around Dead End’s neck. He felt Dead End relax, though his spark was still erratic. It beat strongly enough that for a second, Perceptor feared Dead End’s spark would break free of its casing.

“Lie down.” Perceptor hadn’t intended it to sound like an order, but Dead End complied. Perceptor tugged at his shoulders, and Dead End rolled onto his side, sandwiching Perceptor’s arm comfortably between his neck and the bed.

Seizing a burst of impulsive bravery, Perceptor hooked his leg around Dead End’s waist and pulled himself even closer, slipping once on the tires on his back before catching his grip.

He hadn’t anticipated Dead End’s hand coming to rest on his waist, pinning Perceptor between Dead End’s frame and his hand. Getting any closer would be impossible, and Perceptor was…okay with that. More than okay with that. Perceptor resisted the urge to run his fingers across Dead End’s face again, to feel the thin, pliant metal as it moved in accordance with his moods.

Dead End’s sigh felt more like release than resignation. Perceptor hoped that was the case.

“Better?”

“I think so.” He felt one of Dead End’s finials twitch. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

* * *

_**Cut from chapter 13** _

“Since he’s here…” Astrotrain began. “We could try out the cerebrosh—”

“No.”

“It’s not going to hurt him.”

“If it doesn’t work,” Perceptor said, patiently. “It would be impossible to tell if it was because the patch was faulty or if it was the inactive cerebroshell itself.”

“Yeah,” Dead End said, trying to ignore the fact that Astrotrain and Perceptor were apparently out here in the middle of nowhere, building cerebroshells.

It didn’t work.

He tried not to stare at Perceptor, tried to push back the panic that threatened to choke him. He had fallen asleep in the bot’s room last night. Perceptor would’ve had hours to do who-knows-what to him, and Dead End would never have noticed. The fact that he was in full control of his body—mostly; Dead End noted with some detached, abstract concern that he was starting to feel uncomfortably dizzy—was irrelevant.

Dead End seized the last, rational what-if. Not just because he wanted to be wrong about Perceptor (he did, more than he wanted anything else in the galaxy at the moment).

Mostly because he wanted to be wrong about Perceptor.

“Perceptor?” Dead End had smothered a crack of pain while trying to say the first syllable of his name. It came out more like ‘ceptor. Dead End hoped Perceptor wouldn’t think that was his idea of a nickname.

“Yes?” Perceptor hadn’t been looking at him: he’d been pulling out the datapads from his subspace and setting them on one of the Perceptor-sized workbenches, but when Dead End spoke, he straightened, and the scope came to focus on Dead End’s frame.

“Can I talk to you?” Dead End didn’t dare look back at Astrotrain. “Alone?”

“Of course.”

Astrotrain grumbled his assent and lumbered over to his side of the lab.

“You look ill.”

Dead End shrugged. He leaned against the workbench. It was cool to the touch, solid and reassuring. Real.

“Is something wrong?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“You—” Again at a loss for words, Dead End wordlessly pointed to his optic, and hoped he was far enough away that Perceptor’s scope could pick up what he was doing.

“Oh. Oh.” Despite having no optics, Perceptor did a decent job of looking shocked. “It’s not like that. Here—”

He produced a small chip from his subspace. It was barely the length of a shanix, and perhaps half its width.

“Based on the scans of your neural net, we’ve been coming up with a way to…” Perceptor grimaced. “Inoculate everyone from cerebroshell-based hijacking. Astrotrain wanted to jump straight into testing it on bots. On, er, you.”

That was…better than he had expected. Slightly.

“To see if your fix actually works,” Dead End shook his head, willing the dizziness to go away. “You’d need to know how to hijack someone properly.”

“…I would.”

Dead End took that as a confirmation.

“Did you—” Dead End’s battle protocols were demanding permission to come online. He denied the request. “Last night. When I was asleep. Did you do something to me?”

“No.” Perceptor’s voice was firm. Confidently, reassuringly, firm.

Dead End wanted to believe him. He looked at the chip in Perceptor’s hand. He looked at Perceptor.

“Okay.”

“I should have told you.” Perceptor put the chip away and held out a hand. After a moment of hesitation, Dead End accepted. “But I did not want you to worry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, come find me over at [soundwavereporting](http://soundwavereporting.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you'd like to chat! I'm trying to be more active on [twitter](https://twitter.com/hello_shepard), too.


End file.
